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Red
Erica Spindler
SHE'S GOT NOTHING TO LOSE AND EVERYTHING TO PROVEGrowing up on the wrong side of the tracks in Bend, Mississippi, Becky Lynn Lee doesn't have the luxury of dreaming. With an abusive father and a broken mother, she always thought that this was it. But after the ultimate betrayal, Becky Lynn can no longer live the nightmare.Determined never to go back, Becky Lynn escapes to Hollywood. As a photographer's assistant, she discovers a talent for spotting beauty and capturing the perfect shot. When the camera eventually turns on her, the awkward, shy Becky Lynn of her childhood disappears. But when the success she's achieved is threatened, Becky Lynn must find the strength to embrace her new identity and put the ugliness of her past behind her forever.
Dear Reader,
If you know me through my thrillers, Red may surprise you. Red is a reissue of the 1995 novel that launched my career. Although this novel doesn’t contain my trademark mystery and high body count, it does offer readers other hallmarks of a Spindler novel: lots of drama and a fast-paced plot, characters you love—and love to hate—complex relationships and an emotional edge. I hope you find Red the novel I intended it to be: a big, fun, juicy read.
As always, I love to hear from my readers. You may contact me at P.O. Box 8556, Mandeville, LA 70470 or through my Web site, www.ericaspindler.com. In addition, visit my Web site to read my blog, learn about special promotions, freebies and to enter my monthly contest.
Thanks again and best wishes,
Red
Erica Spindler
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Nathan, my husband, my friend and my love.
For always being there,
for weathering every emotional storm with calm,
reason and love.
I couldn’t do it without you.
Contents
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Book Two
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Book Three
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Book Four
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Book Five
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Book One
1
Bend, Mississippi
1984
No place in the world smelled quite like the Mississippi Delta in July. Overripe, like fruit left too long in the sun. Pungent, like a drunk’s breath at the edge of a whiskey binge. Like sweat.
And it smelled of dirt. Sometimes so dry it coated the mouth and throat, but most times so wet it permeated everything, even the skin. Becky Lynn Lee lifted her hair off the back of her neck, sticky with a combination of perspiration and dust from the unpaved road. Most folks around Bend didn’t think much about the smell of things, but she did. She fantasized about a place scented of exotic flowers and rare perfumes, a beautiful world populated by people wearing fine, silky fabrics and welcoming smiles.
She knew that place existed; she’d seen it in the magazines she poured over whenever she could, the ones the women at Opal’s snickered at her interest in, the ones her father raged at her about.
None of that mattered. She had promised herself that someday, somehow, she would live in that world.
Becky Lynn picked her way across the railroad tracks used not only to ship rice, cotton and soybeans out of Bend, but to divide the good side of town from the bad, the respectable folk from the poor white trash.
She was poor white trash. The label had hurt, way back the first time she’d heard herself referred to by those words; it still hurt, when she thought about it. And she thought about it a lot. That’s the kind of town Bend was.
Becky Lynn lifted her face to the flat blue sky, squinting against the harsh light, wishing for cloud cover to temper the heat. Poor white trash. Becky Lynn had been three the first time she’d realized she was different, that she and her family were less than; she still remembered the moment vividly. It had been a day like this one, hot and blue. She’d been standing in line at the market with her mother and her brother, Randy. Becky Lynn remembered clinging to her brother’s hand and looking down at her feet, bare and dirty from their walk into town, then lifting her gaze to find the other mothers’ eyes upon them, their stares filled with a combination of pity and loathing. In that moment, she’d realized that there were others in the world and that they judged. She had felt strange, self-conscious. For the first time in her young life, she’d felt vulnerable. She had wanted to hide behind her mother’s legs, had wanted her mother to tell the other women to stop looking at them that way.
Becky Lynn supposed that had been back before her daddy had turned really mean, back when she still thought her mother to be an angel with magical, protective powers.
But maybe she had already realized that her mother wasn’t an angel, that her mother didn’t have the ability—or the strength—to make everything all right, because she hadn’t said anything. And the women had kept staring, and Becky Lynn had kept on feeling as if she had done something wrong, something ugly and bad.
Most times now, the respectable folks, even the customers she shampooed down at Opal’s Cut �n Curl, looked right through her. Oh, while she shampooed them they talked to her, but mostly because they liked to hear the sound of themselves and because they knew she was paid to listen and agree with them—something their husbands almost never did. But when they came face-to-face with her on the street, they looked right through her. She wasn’t sure if they pretended they didn’t see her because she was one of Randall Lee’s brood or if they truly didn’t recognize her �cause they’d never really looked at her in the first place.
But whichever, she’d decided being invisible suited her just fine. In fact, she preferred it that way. She felt less different when she was invisible. She felt…safer.
Becky Lynn took a deep breath as she cleared the railroad tracks. The air always seemed a bit sweeter this side of the tracks, the breeze a degree or two cooler. She stepped up her pace, hoping to get to the shop early enough to spend a few minutes looking over the Bazaar that had come the day before.
Up ahead, Becky Lynn caught sight of a fire-engine red pickup truck barreling past the square, coming in her direction, a cloud of dust in its wake. Tommy Fischer and his jock gang, she thought, her heart beginning to rap against the wall of her chest. Probably on their way to pick up her brother. She darted a glance to either side of the road, to the fields thick with cotton, knowing there was no place to hide but searching for one, anyway. Sighing, she folded her arms across her middle, jerked her chin up and kept on walking.
The group of boys began to howl the moment they saw her. “Hey, Becky Lynn,” one of the teenagers called, “how about a date?” In response, the other three boys began to hoot in amusement. “Yeah, looking good, Becky Lynn. My dad’s Labrador retriever’s been lonely lately.”
That brought a fresh burst of amusement from the boys, and she tightened her fingers into fists, but kept walking, never glancing their way. Even if it killed her, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how much their comments hurt.
Tommy slowed the truck more, swerving to the road’s dusty shoulder. “Hey, baby…check it out.” From the corner of her eyes she saw the two boys in the back of the pickup unzip their flies and pull out their penises. “If you weren’t so ugly,” taunted Ricky, the meanest of the group, “I’d even let you touch it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”
The urge to run, as fast and far as she could, screamed through her. She fought the urge back, compressing her lips to keep from making a sound of revulsion and fear.
Ricky leaned over the side of the truck and made a lewd grab for her, forcing her to step off the shoulder and into the muddy field. Tommy gunned the engine and tore off, spitting up gravel and dirt, the boys’ laughter ringing in her ears.
Becky Lynn ran then, the gravel road biting the bottoms of her feet through her tattered sneakers, the bile of panic nearly choking her. She ran until she reached the safety of Bend’s town square.
Drawing in deep, shuddering breaths, Becky Lynn leaned against the outside wall of the Five and Dime, the corner building on the railroad side of the square. She pressed the flat of her hand to her pitching stomach and squeezed her eyes shut. Sweat beaded her upper lip and underarms; it trickled between her shoulder blades. The image of the boys, holding their penises and taunting her, filled her head, and her stomach rolled again. They’d never done anything like that before. She was used to their taunts, their obscene suggestions, but not…this.
Today they’d scared her.
Becky Lynn hugged herself hard. She was safe, she told herself. It was getting toward the end of summer, the boys were bored and got off on seeing her squirm. In a month they would start football practice and wouldn’t have the time or energy to seek her out.
Then she would have to face their jeers at school.
She fought against the tears that flooded her eyes, fought against the despair that filled every other part of her. She had nobody. Not one person in Bend she could turn to for help or support. Alone. She was alone.
Even as fatigue and hopelessness clutched at her, Becky Lynn curled her fingers into fists. She wouldn’t give up like her mother had. She wouldn’t. And someday, she promised herself, she would show Tommy and Ricky and everybody else in this two-bit town. She didn’t know how, but someday they would wish they’d been nice to her.
2
Becky Lynn managed to avoid Tommy Fischer and his gang for an entire week. It hadn’t been easy, they had seemed to be everywhere, just cruising, looking for trouble. Looking for something to ease their boredom, she supposed. She had made up her mind it wouldn’t be her.
Darting a quick, uneasy glance behind her, she stepped onto the square and started for the Cut �n Curl, moving as fast as she could without running. Bend, named for its location at a bend in the Tallahatchie River between Greenwood and Greenville, had been built around a town square. The civic and commercial center of town, the courthouse, police station and mayor’s office were all located here, as well as the two best dress shops in town—the nearest mall being in either Greenwood or Greenville, the nearest real city Memphis. Shaded by magnolia and mimosa trees, sprinkled with azalea and oleander bushes, the square was the closest Bend, Mississippi, got to the places Becky Lynn saw in her magazines.
But not close enough, she thought, hearing familiar laughter and the gun of an engine behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and her heart flew to her throat. Tommy Fischer had decided to take a swing around the square.
The Cut �n Curl in sight now, she started to run, reaching the shop in moments. She pushed through the door with such force that the brass bell hanging above it snapped against the glass.
Miss Opal stood at the first hair station, adding another coat of spray to her platinum blond beehive. She set down the can of spray and turned to Becky Lynn. “What’s the rush, child? You look like you’ve seen the devil himself.”
Driving a bright red pickup. Becky Lynn sucked in a deep breath and forced a smile. “No, ma’am. I just didn’t want to be late.”
Miss Opal smiled. “You’re never late, Becky Lynn. And I want you to know, I do appreciate it.”
Heat stung Becky Lynn’s cheeks, and she folded her arms self-consciously across her chest. “You want me to start straightening up?”
Miss Opal tilted her head and drew her eyebrows together in concern. “You okay today, Becky Lynn? You look a little pale.”
“Yes, ma’am. Fine.”
As if unconvinced, Miss Opal slid her gaze over her, eyes narrowed behind her rhinestone-studded cat glasses. She stopped on Becky Lynn’s feet. “Did you eat this morning?”
Certain the woman could see her toes poking against the too-tight canvas sneakers, Becky Lynn shifted, propping one foot self-consciously on top of the other. “Well…no. But I wasn’t hungry.”
Miss Opal shook her head, which was as close to critical as she ever got. Becky Lynn had long ago decided that the hairdresser had about the biggest heart in Bend. Rumor around town held that Miss Opal came from trash herself, from over in Yazoo City. Rumor also told that she had managed to escape by cracking her daddy over the head with an iron skillet and emptying his pockets of his pay. Becky Lynn didn’t believe any of it, Miss Opal seemed way too nice to have done any of those things. And if she had, Becky Lynn figured her daddy had deserved it.
“You’d better run right over to the Tastee Creme. Marianne Abernathy is our first appointment and if the doughnuts aren’t here, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Miss Opal made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Ever since Doc Tyson put her on a diet, Ed counts each bite she puts in her mouth. I reckon she’s been looking forward to getting her hair done all week.”
She opened the cash drawer, took out a five and handed it to Becky Lynn. “Go on now and get those doughnuts. And don’t forget the ones with the strawberry jam.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Becky Lynn hesitated at the door, thinking of Tommy and his pickup full of boys. What if they were out there waiting for her? She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked hopefully at her boss. “You sure you don’t want me to straighten up first? It would only take a few minutes. I’d be happy to do it.”
The woman frowned and shifted her gaze from Becky Lynn to the bright day beyond. She returned her gaze to Becky Lynn, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong, child? Because if there is, I want you to feel you can come to me.”
Becky Lynn stared at the older woman a moment, a lump in her throat. Could she go to Miss Opal? If she told her what the boys had done, what would she say? Would she believe her? Becky Lynn gazed into the woman’s kind eyes and thought that maybe she would.
She wanted to tell, so badly the words trembled on the tip of her tongue, begging to jump off. She wanted to be assured that everything was going to be all right, that Tommy and his jock gang wouldn’t bother her again. That they would be punished for what they’d done to her.
Right. And purple pigs flew around the town square. Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists, crumpling the bill. Even if Miss Opal believed her, nothing would change. Boys like Tommy and Ricky, from families like theirs, would never be held accountable. Not when the offense had been committed against the likes of her. That wasn’t the way things worked in Bend, Mississippi.
She swallowed past the lump and shook her head. “No, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I was just wondering…has the mail come yet?”
Miss Opal made a sound of amusement, looking relieved. “Becky Lynn Lee, you know as well as I do, the postman doesn’t come till almost noon. Now go on and get those pastries.”
Becky Lynn made it to and from the Tastee Creme in record time.
And without a sign of Tommy Fischer’s truck. Fayrene and Dixie, the other two hairdressers—stylists, they liked to be called—arrived just as Becky Lynn got back with the box of doughnuts.
Fayrene breezed by in a suffocating cloud of the Chanel No. 5 her boyfriend had given her for her birthday the week before, and Dixie stomped in complaining of her husband’s latest get-rich-quick scheme, something about raising catfish in their back pond.
As the morning passed, their conversations buzzed around Becky Lynn—that tacky Janelle Peters was cheating on her husband again; Lulie Carter had gotten herself engaged to a professor from the college over in Cleveland and those bad Birch boys (poor white trash) had been caught smoking marijuana.
She let them talk, keeping half an ear trained on the door, waiting for the postman’s cheery greeting and praying today would be the day the new Vogue came. She liked all the glossy magazines, Bazaar and Cosmopolitan and Elle, but Vogue was her favorite.
Becky Lynn didn’t know if everyone could see that Vogue was the best, but to her it practically shouted its superiority. (After all, didn’t cream always rise to the top?) And from her reading, she knew that only the best photographers shot for Vogue, that the top models fought for the covers. Production quality was, to her admittedly untrained eyes, flawless.
She didn’t just look at the photographs—she studied them, their angles and locations, the way colors, values and textures were combined, and the mood created by using the various elements together. And she studied the models, their positioning and expressions, their hair and makeup and clothes.
Although she would never have the courage to admit it out loud, she figured she’d gotten pretty good at recognizing which pictures were the best. They were all good, but some…just seemed to have something special. A magic. Or sparkle. Just the way some of the models had something that made them stand out from all the others.
She wished, just once, she could find out if she was right. It would be fun to—
“Ouch! Becky Lynn Lee, that water is too hot.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Baxter,” she murmured, adjusting the temperature. “How’s that?”
“Better.” The woman shifted her considerable weight and glared up at her. “You need to get your head out of the clouds and pay better attention to your job. You’re lucky to have it.”
After all, you are poor white trash. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I swear, you people just don’t take anything seriously. Why, just last night, I was saying to my Bubba…”
And so the morning went. Finally, just after twelve, the postman arrived. And her prayers were answered. The August Vogue. She held the magazine almost reverently. Isabella Rossellini graced the cover. Again. She’d held that top spot in June, too. July had been Kim Alexis. They were two of fashion’s best.
Opal gave Becky Lynn permission to take her lunch break, and hugging the magazine to her chest, she grabbed a leftover doughnut and headed back to the storeroom. Although she could have taken a seat in the waiting area out front, or at one of the unoccupied stations, she preferred to be alone.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she gazed at the cover with a mixture of admiration and envy. Isabella’s eyes, dark, velvety and inviting, practically jumped off the page; the model’s lips, curved into a provocative half smile, were full and tinted a deep rose. The photographer had closed in on the model’s face, focusing on the eyes and lips, creating an image that was at once fresh and sophisticated.
What must it feel like to be so beautiful? she wondered, taking a bite of the doughnut. Powdered sugar from the pastry sprinkled onto the glossy photo, and she brushed it carefully away. What must it be like to be so admired, so sought after? To be so beautiful?
What must it be like to be loved?
Longing, so sharp it stung, curled through her. It must be wonderful, she thought, taking another bite. It must be like living a dream.
“What do you see in those things, anyway?”
Startled, Becky Lynn looked up. Fayrene stood in the doorway, studying her over the tip of her lit cigarette. Rarely did anyone inquire after her thoughts, and never had Fayrene, the self-appointed queen of the Cut �n Curl. She swallowed. “Pardon?”
“Those magazines.” The blonde gestured with the cigarette and her bracelets jangled. “The way you study them.” She shook her head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “If you ask me, it’s weird.”
“Leave the girl alone,” Opal called from around the corner in the mixing room. “She’s on break, and she’s not hurting anybody.”
Fayrene pouted. “I wasn’t trying to be a smartass or anything. I really want to know. I mean, I like to look at the pictures, too. But not like that.” She turned back to Becky Lynn, arching a neatly penciled eyebrow in question.
Cheeks on fire, Becky Lynn lowered her gaze to the glossy image before her. How did she explain something she felt so deeply? How did she voice dreams that were so close to her heart yet so far from reality? And if she found a way, would the other woman understand—or laugh?
Her hands began to shake, her palms to sweat. She cleared her throat, then met Fayrene’s gaze once more. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “It’s just that the models are all so…beautiful…so sophisticated, and all. I just look at them and think—”
“Becky Lynn,” Fayrene interrupted, waving the cigarette again. “Wake up! I mean, I like to look at those gals and dream once and a while, too. But you can’t dream your life away.” She shook her head and her bleached-blond mane tumbled across her right shoulder. “As I always say, no sense reaching for a star, you’re never going to catch one. Besides, even if you did manage to, it’d only burn your fingers.”
With this obvious attempt at cleverness, Fayrene paused, waiting for a response. When Becky Lynn didn’t give her one, she made a sound of irritation. “Work with what you have. You’re tall as most men and have a face that…well, let’s be honest, girl, you’re never going to be prom queen. I mean, your features alone are all nice, but put together, they…”
Fayrene hesitated as if really looking at her for the first time. A strange expression crossed her face, then she shook her head. “But you do have good eyes and teeth, and if you would just give me a couple hours with your hair and a bottle of bleach, we could change that carrot top of yours to a sensational-looking blon—”
“Fayrene,” Dixie interrupted, “Bitsy’s timer went off a couple minutes ago. If you frizz her hair again, she’s going to pitch a fit.”
Fayrene swore and started back out into the shop. She stopped and looked back at Becky Lynn. “Think about what I said, girl. Not everybody can be somebody special.”
Becky Lynn slumped back against the wall, the other woman’s words having sucked the pleasure out of the moment. She looked down at the photo of Isabella Rossellini, the image blurring with her tears. Fayrene had missed the point. Sure, she dreamed of being as beautiful and self-confident as the women in the magazines, but she wasn’t an idiot. And she didn’t want to be prom queen.
Her love of the glossies wasn’t about being beautiful. It was about dreaming of a wonderful place nothing like Bend, a place where boys didn’t expose themselves to girls who hadn’t done anything more than be born poor and ugly. It was about being accepted, about being loved.
“Fayrene gets a bit caught up in herself sometimes,” Miss Opal said from the doorway. “She wasn’t trying to be mean.”
But she was, anyway. Becky Lynn swiped at a tear, horrified at the show of emotion. After a moment, she looked up at the other woman. “Isn’t it all right to dream, Miss Opal? Is it so wrong to wish for something you know you can’t possibly—” Her throat closed over the words, and she shook her head.
Opal crossed the room, stopping before her. She laid a hand on Becky Lynn’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “No, child. It’s not wrong. Now, come on. I need you to do a shampoo.”
Becky Lynn stopped at the end of the dirt driveway and gazed at the small, square house before her. Home. She hugged the magazines Opal had given her tightly to her chest. In the fading light, its once-white exterior, now chipped and gray, looked even more dismal, more beaten—as if even the house had given up hope of something better. The picket fence that circled the property, once, she supposed, white and jaunty, was now dingy and broken.
She started up the driveway, dragging her feet. Funny how fast the hours at Miss Opal’s passed, and how slow the ones here did. Time had a way of doing that, she thought. Of standing still for misery.
Becky Lynn smelled the whiskey the moment she stepped onto the sagging front porch. She hated the sweetly sour smell. Sometimes she would wake in the night and feel as if she were being suffocated by it. It permeated everything, her clothes, the furniture and bedding, her father’s skin.
Her life.
Becky Lynn couldn’t remember a time before the reek of whiskey.
Until that moment, she’d managed to forget today was Friday. The day her father got his pay. The day he drank the best, Jim Beam sour mash. He bought a fifth on the way home from the foundry, and he drank until the bottle was empty or he passed out, whichever came first. The rest of the week he settled for the best he could afford. Most times on Thursdays he couldn’t afford anything, so he slept. Becky Lynn looked forward to Thursdays almost as much as she did the arrival of the new glossies. Almost.
Through the tattered screen door she heard “The Family Feud’s” closing music. Why her father loved that show so much, she couldn’t fathom. He never laughed. He never tried to predict the highest scoring answers. Other than an occasional grunt, he just stared at the television screen. And drank. And drank.
Considering the time, her father had no doubt been at that very thing for a couple of hours now, just long enough to have gotten stinking mean, just long enough to be spoiling for a fight. If she had been just a few minutes earlier, if she had arrived in the middle of the lightning round, she would have had a much better chance getting inside without her father noticing.
Cursing her own timing, she slipped quietly through the door. She knew exactly where to place her hands so the door wouldn’t squeak, knew precisely how far to push it in before it scraped the floor.
She held her breath. Her father’s back was to her as he stared at the TV, and pressing herself against the wall, she inched toward the kitchen. If she was lucky, she would avoid his ire tonight. If she was lucky, she would be able to ease by him and—
“Where do you think you’re goin’, girl?”
Becky Lynn stopped, recognizing his tone, the slurring of his words, from a hundred times before. Her stomach turned over; the breath shuddered past her lips. So much for luck.
She swung toward him, forcing a tiny, stiff smile. “Nowhere, Daddy. I just thought I’d see if Mama needed a hand in the kitchen.”
He grunted, and raked his bloodshot gaze over her. A shiver rippled through her as he stared at the apex of her thighs. When he met her eyes again, his were narrowed with suspicion. “You been out whoring around?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I had to stay late at Opal’s. We were busy today, even for a Friday.”
“What d’you got there?”
She tightened her arms on the magazines. “Nothing, Daddy.”
“Don’t tell me �nothing,’ girl!” He lurched to his feet and crossing to her, ripped the magazines from her folded arms. She bit back a sound of dismay, knowing the best way to avoid the full brunt of Randall Lee’s fury was to be as quiet, as agreeable, as possible.
He stared at the magazines a moment, spittle collecting at the corners of his slightly open mouth. Then he swore. Wheeling back, almost losing his balance, he threw the magazines. Becky Lynn jerked as they slammed against the wall. “How many times I told you I don’t want you readin’ this shit. How many times I told you not to spend money on—”
“I didn’t!” she said quickly, breathlessly. “These are the old issues. Miss Opal gave them to me. If you’d check the mailing labels, you’d see—”
“You tellin’ me what to do, girl? You sayin’ I’m dumb?” He took a menacing step toward her, his fists clenched.
“No, sir.” Becky Lynn shook her head vigorously, knowing that she had somehow, once again, crossed the invisible line. But then, it had always been like this with her father. She’d never had to do anything in particular to set him off.
Her mother appeared at the kitchen door, her face pinched and pale, her eyes anxious. “Becky Lynn, baby, why don’t you come in here and help me with the supper.”
A ripple of relief moved over Becky Lynn, and she sent her mother a look of gratitude. Randall Lee didn’t like interference and he wasn’t averse to turning his rage onto his wife. And it was an awesome rage. But then, her father, at six foot four inches tall and as big as a tree trunk, was an awesome man.
“I’d better help Mama,” she whispered, taking a step toward the kitchen.
Her father grabbed her arm, his big hand a vise on her flesh. She winced in pain but didn’t try to jerk away.
“How much you make today?”
“Twelve dollars.” Seventeen, counting the five she’d tucked into her shoe.
He narrowed his eyes. “You’d better not be lying to me.”
She straightened and looked him right in the eye. “No, sir.”
“Empty your pockets.” He dropped his hand and stepped away from her, weaving slightly.
She did as he asked, handing him the money. He looked suspiciously at her, counted it, then handed her two dollars back. She stared at the crumpled bills, thinking of the heads she’d washed that day, of the hair she’d swept off the floor. And of the fact that there would probably be enough money for her father to drink Thursday night.
Bitterness welled inside her, souring in her mouth. She supposed she should be happy, she thought. Most times, he took it all.
Her brother, Randy, came in then, the screen door slapping shut behind him, and her father’s attention momentarily shifted. He swung toward his oldest child. At eighteen, Randy, who had been held back in the third grade, was already as big as his father. And almost as mean. His disposition on—and off—the field had moved his fellow football players to nickname him Madman Lee. “Where’ve you been, boy?”
Randy shrugged. “Out with the guys.”
Randall Lee opened his mouth as if to comment, then just snorted with disgust and turned back to her.
Randy shot her a cocky glance and ambled toward the kitchen. Frustration welled up inside her. Her father rarely attacked Randy. Not Randy, star tackle on the Bend High School football team. Because he was a jock, and because he had the right friends, boys like Tommy Fischer.
No, he saved all his hatred and bitterness for her. He always had. And she didn’t know why.
Suddenly furious at the unfairness of it, she jerked her chin up. She looked at her father, not bothering to hide her contempt. “May I go now?”
“You’ll go when I say so.”
“Why do you think I’m asking?” Idiot. Asshole.
At her tone, a mottled red started at the base of his thick neck and crept upward. He grabbed her arm again, but this time he twisted it until she cried out in pain. “Where’d you get the right to put on airs?” he snapped. “Just like your mother, thinkin’ you’re some kinda queen.” He dragged her to the room’s single window, twisting her arm again, forcing her to face her reflection. Tears stung her eyes and she fought to keep them from spilling over. “Take a look, girl. What man’s ever goin’ to marry you? Tell me that.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “I’ll probably be stuck looking at your ugly mug for the rest of my life. Now get outta here, it makes me sick to look at you.”
He flung her aside, so violently she hit the wall, much the same as her magazines had only moments before. Her head snapped back, cracking against the wallboard. Pain shot through her shoulder. She sank to the dirt floor, thinking, oddly, of the pretty pink and white linoleum at Miss Opal’s. Flecked with silver, it was always so clean it shone.
Shaking her head to clear it, she sucked in a deep breath and using the wall for support, eased to her feet. Her father had returned to his place in front of the television, and she saw him bring the bottle to his lips. She stared at him a moment, hatred roiling inside her, the urge to lunge at him, to claw and hit and scratch, thundering through her. Its beat matched that of the blood pounding in her brain, and she pictured herself doing it. Just walking up to him and smashing her fist into his face.
Becky Lynn squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the urge. She wouldn’t lower herself to his level. For even worse than living the nightmare that was her life, was living his. Becoming like him.
Besides, he’d probably beat the hell out of her before she could get in the first punch.
She limped to the kitchen. Her mama and Randy were there. Her mother chattered softly about the things that needed to be done that weekend, and Randy stood by, his stance uncomfortable and stiff. Neither of them met her eyes, but Becky Lynn could see it in their faces, in their downcast gazes: If it wasn’t you, it might be me.
She couldn’t say they were wrong. She knew they weren’t. And she knew that was why Randy never inter-ceded for her, why her mother never openly tried to comfort her. They didn’t want to incur Randall Lee’s wrath.
Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists. She’d inter-ceded for Randy before; she had stepped into the line of fire on his behalf. She had done the same for her mother; she still did.
They didn’t even have the guts to look at her.
She drew in a shuddering breath, pain spearing through her shoulder once more. She was so weary of living alone with her fear. With her despair. Wasn’t Randy? Wasn’t her mother? It hurt to hold it in, day in and day out. Didn’t they long, as she did, to share their pain? Didn’t they long to have someone to whisper with in the dark, to hold on to and love?
Tears stinging her eyes, Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the other room, to the magazines scattered obscenely across the floor. Her gaze landed on an old Vogue, on model Renée Simonsen’s beautiful, smiling face.
Someone to whisper with in the dark, she thought, hopelessness clutching at her. Someone to lean on, someone who would give her one perfect moment without fear. Her eyes swam; the model’s face blurred. Turning her back to the glossy image, she crossed the kitchen and began to help her mother with the peas.
3
“Becky Lynn, baby, come here.”
Becky Lynn stopped at the front door. Feeling like a prisoner who had gotten caught a moment before she’d made her escape, she turned to her mother. The other woman stood just outside the kitchen; she wore the floral print housecoat Becky Lynn had bought her two Christmases ago. The rose pattern which had been so vibrant and pretty when she’d purchased it, looked tired and gray. Like her mother. And everything else in this house.
Becky Lynn gazed at her mother’s gaunt face and shadowed eyes, pity moving over her. And fear. Fear that by age thirty-six she, too, would look beaten and without hope.
She pushed the thought away, and forced a smile. “What is it, Mama?”
Her mother’s lips curved into a wispy smile. “I thought I might brush your hair.”
Becky Lynn hesitated. She’d planned to hike to the river before it got too hot, and spend her day off from Opal’s sunning and reading. She had several magazines, a soft drink and a sandwich packed in her knapsack. It would be her last opportunity before school started; she’d been on her way out the door.
She darted a glance over her shoulder, to the bright day, and bit back a sigh. Her mother derived too much pleasure from it to deny her this ritual. The river would wait.
“That sounds nice, Mama,” she said, smiling again. She set down her knapsack and crossed to one of the chairs around the kitchen table, choosing one that faced the window.
Her mother positioned herself behind Becky Lynn and began, with long, smooth strokes, to pull the brush through her daughter’s hair. Familiar with the ritual, Becky Lynn wasn’t surprised when her mother began to tell a story about her own childhood. The only talks they’d ever had, the only moments of mother-daughter comradeship, had been while her mother ran the brush through her hair.
Becky Lynn had often suspected that she was her mother’s favorite, although she never understood why. Perhaps because her father hated her, perhaps because she looked so much like her mother’s father or because she reminded Glenna Lee of someone else she’d once known, someone who had been kind to her. Whatever the reason, she held that suspicion to her as if it were the most prized possession on earth.
“It’s the color of strawberry soda pop,” her mother murmured after a moment. “You get it from your Granddaddy Perkins. You never met him, he died just after you were born.”
About the time Daddy lost the farm, Becky Lynn thought. Because of his drinking. And laziness. But she didn’t say that. “What was he like?” she asked instead, even though she already knew. Her mother had talked about Granddaddy Perkins many times before. He had adored his only child. And Randall Lee had despised him.
She sensed her mother’s smile. “He was a nice man. A good husband, a good daddy.” She laughed lightly, the sound faraway and youthful. “He called me his little princess.”
A lump formed in Becky Lynn’s throat. How, after being someone’s princess, had she ended up with a man as base and cruel as Randall Lee? Why had she married him?
And why did she allow him to treat her and her children so badly?
Becky Lynn wanted to ask her mother, the questions teased the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it. She couldn’t ask; her mother had been hurt enough. “He sounds nice, Mama.”
“Mmm. He was nice.” Her mother continued brushing, but Becky Lynn knew her thoughts were far away.
After a moment, the older woman murmured, “Did I ever tell you about the dress I wore to the prom? It was white and dotted with these pretty little pink flowers. The most delicate pink you ever saw. I felt like a princess in it.” She laughed softly. “And my date looked like a prince. He wore a tuxedo and brought me a rose corsage. It was pink, too.”
A rose corsage. Becky Lynn imagined her mother, a blushing teenager, wearing that frilly white dress, the cluster of roses pinned to her chest, and tears flooded her eyes. She fought the tears back, fought the emotion from clogging her throat. “Your date, who was he, Mama?”
Her mother hesitated, then shook her head. “Nobody, baby. I forget.”
She’d asked the question before; she’d gotten the same answer. But her mother hadn’t forgotten, Becky Lynn knew. The boy had been someone special. So special, her mother feared saying his name.
Becky Lynn fisted her fingers in her lap. Her father wasn’t even in the house and her mother was afraid. “I thought you and Daddy were high school sweethearts?”
The brush stilled for a moment, then Glenna Lee began stroking again. “After your Granddaddy Lee’s heart attack, your daddy had to quit school to work on the farm. He didn’t go to the prom.”
And he never forgave you for going, did he? Becky Lynn drew her eyebrows together. What else did he not forgive her mother for? “But where did you meet him?” she asked. “The boy you went to the prom with, I mean.”
Glenna hesitated again, then murmured, “He was from the high school over in Greenwood. My daddy knew his. He arranged it.”
“Granddaddy Perkins didn’t like Daddy much, did he?”
Her mother tugged the brush through her hair, and Becky Lynn winced. “No, not much.”
“But you married him, anyway.” She heard the accusation in her own voice and for once, didn’t try to hide it. “Why did you, Mama?”
Her mother paused, then dropped her hand to her side. The brush slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table. “Your daddy wasn’t always…the way he is now. Having to quit school changed him. He got bitter. He started to drink. Try to understand, baby, he was the star of the football team his junior year and had dreams of playing ball for a college, of being a professional player someday. He dreamed of getting away from Bend.”
Try to understand? Becky Lynn froze, disbelief and fury warring inside her. Did her mother want her to feel bad about what Randall Lee had given up? Two weeks had passed since he’d knocked her around and the bruises he’d given her had finally faded to faint green blurs. It had been a full seven days before she’d been able to shampoo a customer without wincing. Everyone at Opal’s had noticed and whispered about her behind their hands.
She laced her fingers in her lap, trying to control the anger surging through her. She didn’t care what Randall Lee had given up; she would never forgive or excuse him his cruelty. Never.
“What about your dreams?” Becky Lynn asked, her voice shaking. “You had dreams, too, Mama.” She twisted to look up at her mother. “And what about mine?”
The other woman met her gaze; in that instant, her mother’s eyes were clear, full of life and hope. “You’re smart, Becky Lynn,” Glenna said, a tremor of urgency in her voice. “You could go to college, make something of yourself. You’re special, baby. I’ve always known it.”
Dry-mouthed and stunned, Becky Lynn gazed at her mother. “You really…think so? You think I’m…” She couldn’t say the words; they felt wrong, foreign, on her tongue. They felt impossible.
“I do, baby. That’s why your daddy…why he… You’re special. You’re strong.” Glenna cupped Becky Lynn’s face in her hands. She shook her lightly. “Listen to me. You can make something of yourself. Have a career. A life away from Bend. You could go to Jackson or Memphis.”
Becky Lynn covered her mother’s hands with her own. “You could come with me, Mama. He wouldn’t come after us, I know he wouldn’t.”
The light faded from her mother’s eyes, and she extricated her hands from Becky Lynn’s. “Your scalp’ll be raw if I brush anymore. Go on now, I know you had plans.”
Becky Lynn shook her head. “But, Mama, I don’t understand. Why won’t you come? Why—”
“Go on, baby,” she said again, turning her back to Becky Lynn. “Your mama has things to do.”
Glenna Lee started for the doorway, stopping when she reached it. She looked over her shoulder at her daughter. Becky Lynn saw resignation in her eyes. “I’ll be here when you get back, Becky Lynn. I’ll always be here.”
Her mother’s words stuck with Becky Lynn during her hike to the river. She held them close to her heart; she replayed them like a mantra in her head. You’re smart, Becky Lynn… You could make something of yourself… I’ve always known you were special.
Her mother believed in her. She’d never voiced that belief before, nobody had. Not ever. Until today. Becky Lynn tipped her face up to the cloudless blue sky and smiled. It felt wonderful. Magical, even. She never would have guessed how something so small could make her feel so big.
The river in sight now, she cut across Miller’s Lane, heading for the shade on the other side. In the short time she’d been with her mother, the sun had crawled considerably higher in the sky, the temperature seeming to have doubled with it. Even the birds had quieted, as if saving their energy for later in the afternoon, when the sun dipped once more.
Becky Lynn stopped and wiped her forehead, longing for the Coke tucked inside her knapsack. It seemed impossible that September was only a matter of a few weeks away; it felt as if the heat would never break. But that’s the way summers were in the delta, hot, humid and as long as forever.
By the time she reached the river, her T-shirt was soaked and her hair clung uncomfortably to the back of her neck. She selected a shady spot under a big, old oak tree, sank to the ground and dug her soft drink out of her bag.
She popped the top and took a long swallow. The sweet, fizzy drink tickled her throat and nose, and she took another long swallow before easing her head against the tree and closing her eyes. Becky Lynn held the cool can to her forehead, smiling to herself, thinking again of her mother’s words…and of the day she would leave Bend behind forever.
Her smile faded. But leaving Bend meant leaving her mother. Glenna Lee wouldn’t go. She’d made it clear that she felt some sort of responsibility to stay. Some sort of responsibility to her husband.
Why? Becky Lynn drew her eyebrows together. Did she love him? Is that why she stayed? If so, how could she? How could she feel anything but fury and hatred when she looked at him?
What was between her mother and father that she didn’t know about?
Maybe nothing. Becky Lynn frowned and took another swallow of her drink. She didn’t like to think that, didn’t like to think that her mother stayed with her husband because she didn’t have the guts to leave him, or because she was resigned to her fate.
A twig snapped behind her, and Becky Lynn twisted to look over her shoulder. Her heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. Coming from the direction of the road was her brother and his gang.
“Well, looky, looky, Randy,” Tommy called out. “It’s your little sister.”
At the boy’s mocking words, she scrambled up, collecting her knapsack and soft drink. She’d hiked forty minutes to get to this spot; she’d claimed it first. And now, right or wrong, fair or not, none of that mattered. All she cared about was getting as far away from these boys as fast as possible.
“Where ya going, Becky Lynn?” Ricky drawled, planting himself in front of her. “You’re going to make us think you don’t like us.”
“Yeah,” said Tommy, moving to Ricky’s right. “You’ll hurt our feelings.”
“I’m going home now,” she said as calmly as she could around her thundering heart. “Excuse me.” She made a move to step past Tommy; he blocked it.
“Excuse you?” Ricky taunted. “I don’t think so.” He angled a glance at Tommy. “What do you think, Tommy?”
“Nah.” The boy grinned, and a shudder moved up Becky Lynn’s spine. “I don’t think so, either.”
She tried again, this time moving to her left. Ricky blocked her. Tears pricked her eyes, and she fought against them. It wouldn’t do for them to know how helpless and vulnerable she felt. Taking a deep breath, she inched her chin up. “Let me pass.”
“Where are our manners? You didn’t say the �P’ word, Becky Lynn.” That brought fresh snickers from the boys.
Fear soured on her tongue. She swallowed. “Let me pass…please.”
“Well…since you asked so nice.” Ricky smiled thinly and stepped aside.
Relief, dizzying in its sweetness, spiraled through her. She started past him, but didn’t get three steps before he grabbed her arm, stopping her. Relief evaporated, replaced by a fluttering panic. She should have known they wouldn’t let her go before they’d had a chance to really humiliate her.
“Don’t you touch me, Ricky Jones,” she said, jerking her arm from his grasp.
The boys made a collective sound of amusement. Ricky took another step closer. Behind her, Tommy blocked a retreat. “She said that just like a queen, didn’t she, boys?”
“Yeah,” Tommy chirped in. “A queen bitch.”
Becky Lynn dared a glance at Randy. He slid his gaze away, his expression twisted into a resigned grimace. He wasn’t going to help her, she realized, the panic clutching at her. She was on her own. Always on her own.
Screwing up her courage, she forced herself to take one step, then another. When she took the third, Ricky grabbed her bottom and squeezed, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her right cheek. Her control snapped. She took physical abuse from her father; she had all her life. She wasn’t about to take it from this spoiled boy. She swung around and slapped his hand as hard as she could. “I told you not to touch me, Ricky Jones!”
For one moment, electric with tension, the boys were quiet. A cloud moved over the sun; the breeze stilled. Somewhere above them a bird screamed. Then fury lit Ricky’s eyes. And hatred. She recognized both from years of seeing them in her father’s.
She’d made a mistake. A big one. Her breath caught as real fear moved through her. The kind of fear that stole one’s breath and free will. She ordered herself to run; her feet wouldn’t move. Instead, she stared at Ricky Jones in dawning horror. He meant to hurt her.
A cry in her throat, she ran. She didn’t get ten feet before Ricky caught her and dragged her back. Her Coke slipped from her fingers and hit the ground, the carbonated beverage foaming from the can’s small mouth. She squeaked in fear as she fought to free herself.
He shoved her up against the tree, which only minutes ago had offered her such sweet shelter from the sun. The bark bit into her back, and she smelled beer on his breath. Her stomach rolled, and she made a sound of revulsion and fear.
“Come on, guys,” Buddy Wills said suddenly, nervously. “Leave her alone. Let’s go have some fun.”
“We’re having fun right here,” Ricky said softly, not taking his gaze from hers. “Aren’t we, Randy?”
Becky Lynn glanced pleadingly at her brother; he looked physically ill. “Randy,” she begged, twisting against Ricky’s grasp. “Please, make him stop. Plea—”
Ricky planted his open mouth on hers. He tasted of beer and tobacco; his breath was foul. He stuck his tongue deep into her mouth, and she gagged, straining against his grasp.
He kissed her again and again, his mouth open, sloppy wet with spit. He plastered his body to hers, and his erection pressed against her abdomen. She whimpered low in her throat, and squirmed, a shard of bark digging into her shoulder blade, piercing the thin fabric of her T-shirt.
Ricky dragged his mouth from hers, and looked over his shoulder at his buddies. She saw the laughter in his eyes, the triumph, and fury exploded inside her. Enraged, she wrenched an arm free and swung at him, catching him off guard, nailing him in the side of his head. “You bastard! Get off of me!”
“Sonofabitch!” Ricky stumbled backward, then lunged for her again. “Cunt! Bitch!” He slammed her back against the tree, so hard she saw stars. “Tommy, Christ, give me a hand here!”
Tommy jumped forward and pinned her arms. She fought him as best she could, twisting, arching, trying to kick.
Ricky put his hands on her breasts, squeezing them, pinching at the nipples. “Hey, Tommy, these are some nice little titties. Have yourself a squeeze.”
“No!” She freed a foot and managed to jam it onto one of theirs, but without enough force to do anything but amuse them.
Tommy laughed and pulled at her breasts. “Ricky’s right. How’d we miss these, guys? All we’d need now is a paper bag. Come on and have a feel, Buddy.”
The other boy took a step back, shaking his head. “No way. This isn’t right.” He looked at Randy. “It’s not right.”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Becky Lynn flailed her head back and forth as the two boys continued to paw at her. “Please,” she whispered, horrified beyond words by what they were doing to her, humiliated and ashamed. “Please… Randy…don’t…let them…”
She looked at her brother, begging him, and saw the fear and horror in his eyes. In that moment, she realized he cared more about being one of these boys’ friends than he did about her, his own flesh and blood.
“If her tits are good,” Ricky said, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth, “maybe her pussy’ll be okay, too. What do you think, Tommy?”
“No!” She arched her back, straining against Tommy’s hands. “Leave me alone… Randy…don’t let them—”
Ricky shoved his hand between her legs, and she screamed, vaguely wondering why she hadn’t before. Tommy slammed his hand over her mouth, catching the sound. She bit down, heard Tommy’s oath and tasted blood. His blood.
“You wet yet, Becky Lynn?” Ricky asked, grinding his fingers against her. “Huh, baby?” He poked at her through the denim of her shorts, and she cried out in pain, the sound muffled by Tommy’s hand.
“Shit, guys,” Buddy said, stepping forward, looking as if he was going to puke. “This isn’t right. It’s Randy’s sister, for Christ’s sake.” He grabbed Ricky’s arm. “Come on, man. Leave her alone.”
Ricky jerked from the other boy’s grasp, fury tightening his features. “Get your own piece, asshole.”
Buddy looked at Randy. Becky Lynn could see that if Randy didn’t put up a fight, Buddy was going to back down, as well. And she would be lost.
Randy moved to stand beside Buddy. “Leave her alone,” he said, his voice shaking.
“What’s a matter, Madman? Afraid?”
Randy, bigger than all of them, curled fingers into fists. “Fuck you, Fischer. I’m not afraid of anything. You want to take me on? Just say the word.”
For long moments, the boys faced one another. Then Ricky and Tommy dropped their hands and stepped away from Becky Lynn. “Hey, man, we didn’t mean any harm. We were just havin’ a little fun. That’s all.”
Becky Lynn ran. Leaving her precious magazines, not bothering to straighten her T-shirt. She ran until sweat poured from her and each breath tore at her chest and side.
Fun. They were just having a little fun.
A sob wrenched from deep inside her. Dear Jesus, she’d wanted to die, and they’d just been having a little fun.
Becky Lynn didn’t slow even when she caught sight of her house. Limping, gasping for breath, she reached it. Her mother stood on the front porch, still wearing the floral housecoat. She stared blankly out at nothing, and her gaze flickered to her daughter as Becky Lynn climbed onto the porch. But she didn’t speak, didn’t comment. Becky Lynn knew that she didn’t even see her. Not really.
Becky Lynn pushed through the screen door. Her daddy sat in a stupor on the couch. She moved past him; he didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Thank God. She didn’t know what she would have done if he’d chosen that moment to lay into her. She only wanted to be alone. To be in her own bed. To never be touched again.
Becky Lynn slipped into her bedroom, crawled onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her. She curled into a tight ball, trembling so violently her teeth chattered. So cold, she thought, curling herself tighter. She was so cold.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and her head filled with the suffocating smell of Ricky’s breath, hot against her skin, filled with the feel of Ricky’s tongue poking in her mouth, with the sensation of being trapped, overpowered.
She shoved a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. Why had Ricky and Tommy done that to her? What had she done to deserve such cruelty? Such loathing?
Why her? Why always her?
Tears, hot against her cold flesh, slipped from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, pooling at the corners of her mouth. She’d been trapped. Like an animal. Unable to free herself, unable to escape.
A sob caught in her throat. She’d fought them. But they’d been stronger; they’d held her down. The sob forced its way past her lips, ripping through the quiet room. They’d put their hands on her; she hadn’t been able to make them stop, hadn’t been able to escape.
She’d wanted to, more than anything in the world. She still did. Escape Tommy and Ricky. Her father.
Escape her life.
Hopelessness overwhelmed her, and she pressed her face into the sagging mattress, tears of shame and despair choking her. As she cried, the nightmare of the last hours began to dim, being replaced by those magic moments with her mother earlier. You’re special, Becky Lynn…You could make something of yourself… You could move away from here.
Becky Lynn curled her fingers into the rough, frayed blanket, holding on to those words, their warmth licking at the cold. Somebody thought she was special. One person in this world believed in her. That meant something. It was important.
If nothing else, it would get her through another day.
4
Fear became Becky Lynn’s constant companion. At school and Miss Opal’s. At the bus stop in the mornings, walking home from work in the evenings.
Razor sharp, the fear left her every sense heightened, her every nerve twitching. Waiting. For the worst to happen. Waiting for the moment when she would come face-to-face with Ricky and Tommy, for the moment when they would find her alone and completely vulnerable.
Oddly, the same fear that heightened her senses also numbed them, creating a wall between her and the world, a barrier that kept her from experiencing anything but her fear.
So she lived with it. She ate it and slept with it, it accompanied her to school and work. She awoke in the night, breathing hard, bathed in sweat, feeling suffocated by the emotion. Sometimes she awakened to the smell of Ricky’s foul breath, to the sensation of his hands on her breasts, between her legs, and she would hold the pillow to her face to muffle her cry of terror. Of revulsion. Those nights she would be unable to sleep again. She huddled under the blanket, watching light touch the sky, praying for sleep yet praying more that it wouldn’t come.
She had lost weight. Her eyes had become shadowed. Already quiet, she had stopped talking at all. No one had noticed. Not her mother or a sibling, not a teacher or Miss Opal.
But then, she hadn’t expected that anyone would. Just as she hadn’t considered telling anyone what had happened. She knew, in her heart and gut, that telling would only make her situation worse.
Becky Lynn retrieved the broom and dustpan from the back of the beauty shop and began cleaning up. Miss Opal had just finished her last appointment of the day and Fayrene and Dixie had left more than an hour ago. It had been slow, even for a Wednesday.
She tucked a hank of her hair behind her ear, moving the broom over the shiny floor, making sure she found every corner and cranny, wanting to do a good job for Miss Opal. The woman had gone to the high school principle and convinced him to give Becky Lynn special dispensation to miss last period study hall so she could work afternoons at the Cut �n Curl.
Becky Lynn bent to maneuver the broom under Fayrene’s workstation. She had needed the money, and she was only too happy to get away from school early. She drew her eyebrows together in thought. She had feared the first day of school, feared seeing Ricky and Tommy, so much she’d been physically ill. Yet that day and the ones following had slipped by until a month had passed without incident. The boys hadn’t approached her again. They hadn’t touched her, hadn’t exposed themselves or teased her much at school. In fact, they had been distant. Almost polite.
She had told herself that she was safe. She had told herself they had forgotten her, that they were busy now with football, their girlfriends and school functions.
Yet, no matter how often she reassured herself, something about their distance unsettled her. And her sense of being threatened grew with every day.
She frowned and swept the last of Mrs. Peachtree’s gunmetal gray hair into the dustpan. In the delta, the quieter, the more still and heavy the air, the worse the coming storm was going to be. That’s the way the air had felt to her every day since the river. Heavy, ripe with waiting and so still she could hear her own heart pump.
Maybe they had scared themselves, she thought, shuddering. Maybe Buddy Wills’s words had sunk into their thick skulls.
Or maybe Randy had demanded they leave her alone.
She tightened her lips into a grim line and emptied the dustpan of hair into the trash. Her brother was no hero—especially hers. The last thing he would ever do was stick up for her. He had made that clear the day by the river and every day since. The bastard wouldn’t even look at her.
The bell jangled against the shop’s glass door. Becky Lynn glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Miss Opal’s husband, Talbot. He usually stopped by around this time to see how his wife was doing and to find out what she had planned for dinner.
Instead, Ricky and Tommy sauntered through the beauty-shop door, their lips twisted into self-satisfied smirks. She froze, a chill racing up her spine. Had they come looking for her?
Of course not. Becky Lynn drew in a deep breath, working to calm herself, to slow her runaway pulse. She wasn’t alone. They couldn’t touch her now, they couldn’t hurt her.
“Hello, boys.” Opal snapped the cash drawer shut and smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Miss Opal, ma’am.”
Tommy stopped at the counter, Ricky a step or two behind him. Becky Lynn tightened her fingers on the broom handle, praying neither of them looked her way.
“Mama sent me by to pick up a bottle of that strawberry shampoo she likes so much. She said to tell you she’d pay you when she came in on Saturday.”
“That’ll be fine.” Opal took the receipt book out of the drawer and began writing up the transaction. “We goin’ to win that big game Friday night?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ricky said proudly. “We’re goin’ to kick some Wolverine butt.”
“You bet,” Tommy added. “Those boys’ll be sorry they ever came to Bend.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Miss Opal rummaged under the counter, then made a sound of annoyance. “I had a bottle of that shampoo set aside to take home myself. I bet Fayrene up and sold it. Lord knows, I shouldn’t expect her to walk ten feet.”
“Becky Lynn,” she called over her shoulder, “fetch me one of those strawberry shampoos from the display in back. You know which one I mean.”
Becky Lynn watched in horror as Tommy and Ricky turned and looked at her. The broom slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering against the linoleum floor. She stared stupidly at them, unable to breathe, to move.
Ricky’s mouth curved into a cold smile. Her heart began to thrum, her palms to sweat. She’d wanted to die, and they’d just been having a little fun.
Miss Opal frowned. “Becky Lynn? The shampoo.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, turning and crossing to the Redkin display. She took a bottle from the shelf, her hands trembling so badly she almost dropped it.
A little fun. They’d just been having a little fun.
She carried the bottle to Miss Opal, her eyes downcast, her feet leaden.
“Hiya, Becky Lynn.”
She lifted her gaze to Ricky’s, terror choking her. He looked her straight in the eye, arrogantly, without apology or fear. His gaze, as flat and emotionless as a shark’s, mocked her. She had a sense that he knew everything she felt, and that she amused him.
She curled her fingers into fists. Because of who he was, he thought he could get away with anything. “Hello,” she said, digging her nails into her palms, her voice high.
He smiled again, this time broadly for Miss Opal’s benefit. “I haven’t seen you much around school. Where have you been hiding yourself?”
Aware of Miss Opal’s gaze, she shook her head, her mouth dry. “Nowhere. I’ve been…nowhere.”
Ricky picked up the bottle of shampoo and tossed it to Tommy. “We’ll catch up with you later, Becky Lynn. Right, Tommy?”
The bottle slapped against Tommy’s palm, and he wrapped his fingers around it. “Yeah. One of these days.”
A sound of fear escaped her, small and breathless. It slipped unbidden past her lips, and Miss Opal looked at her sharply. “Becky Lynn, that delivery of products still needs to be unloaded and checked in. It’s in the storeroom. See to it now, please.”
Becky Lynn nodded, relief stealing her breath. She turned and fled to the storeroom. Once there, she brought her trembling hands to her face. “We’ll catch up with you later,” Ricky had said. “One of these days.” Tommy had agreed.
She had been right to feel threatened; she hadn’t been paranoid. Ricky and Tommy hadn’t forgotten her; they had just put her on hold.
From out front, Becky Lynn heard Miss Opal tell the boys goodbye and to say hello to their mamas, then heard the bell jangle against the door.
Bitterness rose like a bile in her throat; tears burned the back of her eyes. No one would ever believe Tommy and Ricky were anything but model young gentlemen, no one would believe they could do any wrong. Not them, not two of Bend’s favorite sons.
Becky Lynn crossed to the product shipment and knelt on the floor beside the box. She took out the packing list, the printed words and numbers swimming in front of her eyes, her tears making reading it an impossibility.
Where could she hide? How could she protect herself? She lowered her head to the box and rested her forehead against it. The tears slipped down her cheeks and off the tip of her nose, splashing onto the packing list clenched in her hands. She had no one to turn to, no one who would believe her.
“We need to talk.” Miss Opal came into the room, shutting the door behind her.
Becky Lynn wiped away the tears on her cheeks, then darted a look over her shoulder. Miss Opal stood just inside the room, hands on her hips, her expression stern. “Ma’am?”
“Becky Lynn Lee, I want you to tell me what’s going on with those boys.”
Becky Lynn gazed at the other woman, a glimmer of hope blooming inside her, pushing at her fear and despair, at her loneliness. She could tell Miss Opal. Miss Opal would believe her.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “You mean Ricky and Tommy?”
“Yes.” The hairdresser took a step toward her, shaking her head in disappointment. “Just because some folks around Bend think you’re trash doesn’t mean you have to act like it.”
Becky Lynn frowned, her heart beginning to pound. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“You’ve been sleeping around with those boys, haven’t you?”
“No!” The word ripped from her as she jumped to her feet. She faced her boss, hurt and betrayal swelling inside her, souring in her mouth. The only person who had ever been supportive and kind, the only person she had ever thought she could, just maybe, turn to, believed she was no better than a tramp.
“I would never…those boys…they—”
“Becky Lynn Lee,” Miss Opal interrupted, her expression and tone righteous, “you listen to me. Your reputation is yours alone. Nobody can take it from you, and likewise, only you can throw it away. And once it’s gone, it can never be retrieved.”
Becky Lynn thought of that day by the river, her head filling with the memory, her stomach turning with it. Ricky and Tommy had touched her when she hadn’t wanted to be touched, they had taken without asking, without consent. She would never feel clean again.
She faced Miss Opal, all her hurt, all her anger and fear, her humiliation, rushing to her lips. “You’d never think those boys would do something wrong…something awful! Oh, no, not fine upstanding boys like Tommy Fischer and Ricky Jones. You could never imagine that they might…that they might hurt me.”
Becky Lynn fisted her fingers. “I thought you…cared about me. I thought you believed I was something better than everyone else did. I see now that I was—”
She choked back the words, and swung away from Miss Opal once more, curving her arms around her middle, holding and comforting herself because no one else would.
“What are you saying, Becky Lynn? Did those boys—” The older woman cleared her throat. “Did they touch you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, not turning, not wanting to see Miss Opal’s expression.
Miss Opal’s silence deafened. Becky Lynn turned and faced her, spine ramrod straight. “What are you going to do now? Fire me? Call me a liar?”
For a long moment, Miss Opal said nothing. Then she sighed, the sound old and defeated. “I’m sorry, child. So…sorry. I do believe you.” She folded her hands in front of her. “Though I wish I didn’t.”
Miss Opal sighed again. “You were behaving so strangely…and those boys, there was something about the way they looked at you. I jumped to the conclusion that you…had…that you were…”
Sleeping with them. Just the way poor white trash would. Becky Lynn lifted her chin defensively and drew in a ragged breath. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered, her voice thick. “If I’m not fired, I’ll finish unpacking that order now.”
Miss Opal touched her shoulder lightly. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “Please forgive me.”
Becky Lynn shuddered. Miss Opal’s touch was gentle, reassuring.
She would love to be held, would love to lean against the older woman and sob out her fears. She would love to forget what Miss Opal had accused her of. But she knew better than to do any of those things. When she forgot her place and who she was, she got hurt.
She shrugged off Miss Opal’s hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But I will worry about it. I’m fond of you and…and I feel terrible about what I just suggested. You’re a good girl, and I knew you wouldn’t do that, but I… Look at me, Becky Lynn. Please.”
Becky Lynn turned and met her boss’s eyes. Miss Opal looked genuinely distressed. Her already hawkish features were pinched, her eyes soft with regret. As she gazed at the other woman, some of her anger, her indignation, slipped away. Even as she softened, she inched her chin up.
“You’re right to be angry with me. I was wrong, and I’m terribly sorry.” Miss Opal caught her hands. “Now, Becky Lynn,” she said quietly but in a tone that brooked no argument, “I want you to tell me what those boys did to you.”
Becky Lynn shook her head and tugged against the other woman’s grasp. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked you, Becky Lynn Lee.” She tightened her fingers. “What did those boys do to you?”
Becky Lynn gazed at Miss Opal, the truth pressing at her, begging to be told. She sucked in a deep breath. She wanted to tell; she wanted someone to believe her. She wanted Ricky and Tommy to be punished.
But she was afraid.
As if reading her thoughts, Miss Opal reached out and tipped her chin gently up. “You can trust me, child,” she said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “I promise I’ll help you if I can.”
Becky Lynn lowered her eyes to her toes. Her heart began to thunder; the blood rushed to her head until she was dizzy with it. “They…touched me. Ricky and Tommy…they shoved me up against a tree and they—” Tears flooded her eyes, hot and urgent. “They touched my breasts and my…”
She lifted her eyes to Miss Opal’s, tears blurring her vision. “They wouldn’t stop. I begged them to, but they…wouldn’t.”
The hairdresser made a sound of distress and drew Becky Lynn into her arms and against her bony chest. “Poor, baby. Poor, sweet child.” She stroked Becky Lynn’s hair, murmuring words, sounds, of comfort.
“They wouldn’t stop,” Becky Lynn repeated, reliving the horror of those minutes. “Buddy tried to talk them into leaving me alone, but Randy just stood there. My own brother—” She buried her face in Miss Opal’s shoulder.
The hairdresser’s hand stilled for a moment, then she resumed her rhythmic stroking. “Becky Lynn,” she asked quietly, “did those boys…did they rape you?”
She shook her head, sniffling, tears soaking the other woman’s blouse.
“Thank God for that.” Miss Opal took in a deep, thoughtful breath. “Did you tell your parents?”
Becky Lynn eased away from Miss Opal and met her eyes, her own still swimming. “Daddy wouldn’t have…believed me, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have done anything about it. And Mama, well…she’s got enough troubles of her own.”
Miss Opal’s lips tightened with disapproval, but she didn’t comment.
“Did you tell one of your teachers, a school counselor, or—”
She shook her head again. “I didn’t tell anybody.”
“Then we must decide what we’re going to do.”
“Do?” Becky Lynn repeated, stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we can either go to Ricky’s and Tommy’s parents or to the police—”
“No!” Becky shook her head again, this time with growing alarm. She could imagine what Tommy’s and Ricky’s parents would think of her accounting of events, could imagine how the police would react. Within hours, Bend would be buzzing with the story about how that trashy Becky Lynn Lee lied about the stars of the Bend High School football team. She couldn’t bear the thought of people talking about her that way. She couldn’t bear the speculation.
Panicked, she clasped her hands together. “Don’t you see? Nobody will believe me. They’ll think I was the one…that I wanted attention. It would be awful, I couldn’t stand it.”
“You can’t let them get away with this,” Miss Opal said, her voice tight. “It isn’t right.”
“You didn’t believe me at first, why would anyone else?”
The older woman sighed heavily. Becky Lynn could see her boss struggle to decide the best thing to do.
“Please, Miss Opal. Please don’t tell.” Becky Lynn caught the older woman’s hands, fear coiling around her, squeezing at her chest until she could hardly breathe. “I’m afraid of what will happen if you do. They might—”
“What could they do, child? It’s keeping something like this secret that will hurt you. We must go to their parents or the authorities.”
“No, please…” Becky Lynn clutched Miss Opal’s hands. “Just promise me you won’t tell. Please.”
The hairdresser made a soft sound, part affection, part reticence. “All right, Becky Lynn. I won’t tell. For now. But I don’t like it.”
“Thank you, Miss Opal. Thank you so much.”
“But you must promise me that if those boys do anything to you, anything at all, you’ll come to me at once.”
Becky Lynn smiled. “I will. I promise.”
The woman touched Becky Lynn’s cheek lightly. “I don’t want you to think you have no one to turn to. Never again.”
5
Becky Lynn promised, and as the days slipped into weeks, she was filled with a sense of well-being and security. Partly because Ricky, Tommy and their gang never bothered her and partly because Miss Opal had taken to watching over her like a mother hen.
The older woman insisted on driving Becky Lynn home from work, insisted that when she did walk, she take the most traveled routes, and had even taken to sending Fayrene or Dixie for the pastries on Saturday morning. Fayrene had herself in a snit over it, but Miss Opal didn’t seem concerned in the least over the other hairdresser’s pique. She always found a more pressing job for Becky Lynn, one from which she couldn’t be spared, even for a few minutes.
Becky Lynn smiled to herself as she scrubbed the first shampoo bowl. For the first time in her life, she had a sense of what it must be like to have a mother, a mother in the real sense of the word, even if only part-time. It was nice to have someone who worried about her, someone who cared about what happened to her. It made her feel special. It made her feel cocooned and safe.
“Becky Lynn, you sure you can make it home without a ride?”
She lifted her gaze to Dixie. The other woman stood at the shop’s front door, buttoning her coat. Becky Lynn nodded. “I’ll be fine. It’s not even dark yet.”
The hairdresser looked longingly over her shoulder. Her last two appointments had canceled, and she wanted to go home. Becky Lynn couldn’t blame her—it had been a busy day, and she had a family to take care of.
She returned her gaze to Becky Lynn. “You’re sure? Miss Opal was pretty insistent that I drive you. She made me promise.” Dixie pursed her lips in thought. “I could ask Fayrene.”
Becky Lynn had no doubt how that request would be met. The other hairdresser was in back now, sulking because Dixie was going home and she would have to stay and close the shop. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
“Okay.” Dixie fastened a scarf around her cap of curls. “Miss Opal sure was tickled about going to see her granddaughter cheer at that pep rally. You going?”
Becky Lynn shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, okay then. See you tomorrow afternoon.”
As Dixie stepped out into the gathering dusk, Becky Lynn had the sudden urge to call her back and beg her to wait. The words, the plea, sprang to her tongue. She took an involuntary step toward the door, starting to call out, then stopped, shaking her head at her foolishness. If ever there was a night she didn’t need to worry about walking home, it was tonight. As key players on the Bend High football team, Tommy and Ricky, and just about everybody else in this football-crazy town, would be busy at the pep rally.
She shook her head again, and went back to scrubbing the shampoo bowls. No, tonight she had nothing to fear.
Forty-five minutes later, she and Fayrene parted company at the square. Although just past five, shadows already swallowed the peripheral edges of the square and pressed inward, gobbling up the last of the light.
Becky Lynn looked straight ahead, toward the main road and the brightly lit homes and neighborhoods that lined it, then to her right and the road that led across the railroad tracks and through the worst part of Bend but straight to her house. She could save twenty minutes. Her stomach rumbled, and the shadows eased closer.
She tilted her face to the darkening sky and thought of her promise to Miss Opal, thought of the hour and of Tommy and Ricky and the pep rally.
Even as a chill crawled up her arms, she shook her head and angled to her right, cutting across the square, moving as fast as she could without running. Tonight she had nothing to fear.
In minutes, she had left the lights of the square behind and was crossing the railroad tracks. As she cleared them, she noticed the quiet. No slamming doors reverberated through the night, no mothers called their children to dinner, no cars roared past. Not even a breeze stirred the trees.
She had passed into the part of Bend called Sunset. Due west of the square, the sun always seemed to set, bloody red, right on top of Sunset. Considered the worst part of town, worse even than her own shabby neighborhood, it housed the dirt poor.
The people who lived here were the ones her father felt superior to. These were the ones he put down and called names and hurt whenever he had the chance. She’d always thought that a sick, human failing, that need to find and denigrate someone less fortunate than yourself.
She shuddered and lifted her face to the dark sky.
She should have taken the long way.
Becky Lynn stepped up her pace, hiking up her collar higher on her neck. She glanced nervously to her sides. The sparsely populated area had homes that were nothing better than shanties, some of which were former slave cabins, left over from when this land had been part of a prosperous plantation; cotton fields and dilapidated out-buildings. She’d walked this way hundreds of times before; she had never felt threatened, had never been afraid.
Had Miss Opal taken such care of her that now, without the woman’s guardian gaze, she felt afraid? Silly, she thought, hugging herself. She was being silly.
From her left, she heard a sound, something soft and thick, like a muffled laugh. From her right, the scurry of something through the grass, some small frightened animal, then the sound of a twig snapping.
Becky Lynn stopped in the middle of the road, her heart hammering against the wall of her chest. She looked around her, peering into the shadows. “Is anyone there?”
Silence answered her, louder than any voiced reply. She sucked in a sharp breath and started walking again, stopping at the sound of her own name. It floated on the night air, called in a ghostly voice, the kind of voice used on Halloween by kids trying to scare one another, laced with both cunning and amusement.
Ricky and Tommy weren’t at the pep rally.
They were here.
Her heart in her throat, she started to run.
From her right came the sound of someone running through the overgrown fields. A moment later, Ricky darted out of the shadows ahead of her, his smile eerily white in the darkness. “Hello, Becky Lynn.”
She stopped in her tracks, fear rising like bile inside her. It turned on her tongue, threatening to choke her. She swallowed, fighting to find a shred of calm. “Wha-what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, Becky baby. We’ve been waiting weeks for you.” He grinned and her blood went cold. “Just like we promised. Right, Tommy?”
“Right,” the other boy answered, stepping out from the shadows to her left. “How’ya doing tonight, baby?” With a jerk, Tommy yanked another person forward. Buddy stumbled into view.
Buddy looked sick. He had something she couldn’t make out clutched in his hand. She searched the shadows for her brother, but they’d obviously left him behind.
She took a step backward, glancing frantically around her, looking for a way to escape. Why had she done this? Why hadn’t she listened to Miss Opal? She breathed deeply through her nose, working to keep her wits—what was left of them—about her.
“Lost your guard dog tonight.” Ricky made a clucking sound with his tongue. “What a pity. For you.”
Tommy laughed and Buddy hung his head.
“Bet she’s going to enjoy seeing her granddaughter cheer. Right, Tommy?”
“I’d enjoy it, too, Ricky. She’s one fine little piece.”
They closed ranks and took a step toward her. Her fingers and toes went numb, the inside of her mouth turned to ash. A light burned from the house just behind her to her left. If she could just make it to that door, maybe someone there would help her.
She took another step backward, frantically searching for a way to distract them, for something that would give her the moments she needed to make it to that doorway. “Leave me alone,” she whispered. “Please.”
Ricky laughed and took another step toward her. “Now, why should we go and do that?”
“I haven’t done anything to you. I just want to be left alone.”
“Seems I remember you slapping me.” Ricky turned to Tommy. “Do you remember that?”
“Sure do.” Tommy grinned. “Slapped the shit out of you, right in front of us.”
“Look,” she said, panic clawing at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just—”
“What did you think you were going to accomplish by telling Miss Opal?” Ricky asked, his upper lip curling. “What did you think our parents were going to do? Spank us?”
Miss Opal had gone to their parents? Becky Lynn struggled for an even breath. She hadn’t kept her promise? “Wh-what do you mean?”
“Did you really think anyone was going to believe we would touch you?” Ricky sneered. “Our parents laughed. They were offended at the suggestion.”
“C’mon, guys,” Buddy piped up suddenly, his voice high with nerves. “Let her go. If we’re late for the rally, coach will have our heads.”
“What do you think he’s gonna do?” Tommy snapped, swinging toward the other boy. “Bench us for the big game? No way. Can’t win without us.”
“Buddy, you fuckin’ pussy.” Ricky practically spat the words. “We talked about this, we can all get a crack at her and still be suited up in time.”
They meant to rape her.
With a sound of fear, Becky Lynn turned and ran. Her fear made it hard to breathe, it clutched at her chest even as she pushed herself to run faster. Her feet pounded on the dirt road, rocks bit into the bottoms of her feet, she angled off the road and toward the lit doorway.
Safety within reach, she opened her mouth to scream for help; one of them tackled her from behind, knocking her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. She tasted dirt and her own blood, pinpoints of light flashed behind her eyes.
In the next moment, a hand was forced over her mouth and she was being dragged, Ricky at her head and Tommy at her feet, from the side of road and behind a dilapidated shed. She struggled, dimly aware of Buddy following behind, dragging his feet.
If she had any hope, she realized, it was Buddy. If only Ricky would take his hand off her mouth, she could beg Buddy to help her; she could scream. But he didn’t, and his grip partially covered her nose, as well, and she felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen.
Dear God, she thought, struggling for air, this couldn’t be happening to her! The words played through her head like a continuous tape.
“You got the paper bag, Buddy?”
“This has gone far enough.” Buddy cleared his throat nervously. “I mean, joking about it was one thing, but—”
Ricky tightened his grip on her and glared at the other boy. “You going to be a pussy all your life, Wills? Or are you a faggot? Give me the goddamned bag!”
The boy hung back, his face white with fear. “What if we get caught? What if—”
“We’re not going to get caught.”
“What if she tells? Jesus, Ricky, we could go to jail!”
“You are such a fucking girl, Buddy.” Ricky laughed, the sound twisted and evil. “Who’s going to believe her? Nobody, that’s who. Our folks didn’t believe Miss Opal, they laughed at the thought that we would touch her. You think I would do this if I didn’t know I could get away with it?”
They were raping her because they knew they could get away with it.
And because they thought she was nothing.
“Now bring me the goddamned bag so I can put it over her head. Then help hold her down.” Ricky’s hand slackened as he faced the other boy.
They were going to put a paper bag over her head so they wouldn’t have to look at her. Sons of bitches! Bastards! Fury ate her fear, and with Ricky’s attention diverted, she propelled herself up, knocking him sideways. Enraged, she flew at Tommy, raking his face with her nails. He howled with pain. He pried her off him, then wheeling back with his fist, punched her.
His fist connected with her jaw, and her head snapped back, pain shooting with blinding intensity through her skull. She reeled backward and hit the ground, her head cracking against a rock. Pain shot through her head, then light. Brilliant white and blinding.
Everything went black.
When Becky Lynn came to, she saw only black, could only draw a shallow breath, closed as she was in the damp, tight box. Disoriented, she tried to move her hands but found them anchored, found her legs nailed down, stretched at a painful angle.
It took a moment to realize where she was and what was happening, a moment for reality to rudely reassert itself. The weight of a body pressed her into the damp, fecund earth, hands held her immobile. Her clothes had been pushed or torn aside, the night air chilled her skin, although she knew the iciness she felt had little to do with the temperature.
It was Ricky on top of her. She knew him by his stench.
Sounds and sensations flashed crazily through her head. The ooze of the earth against her skin, the smell of sweat and mud, the pain of an object being forced into her, sawing and tearing. The paper bag crackled as she flung her head from side to side in an agony of pain and shame.
A dog began to bark, a high excited sound that ripped through her head, drowning out the sound of Ricky’s labored breathing. Of Buddy’s fear and Tommy’s anticipation. Of her own mewls of despair.
Ricky grunted with release, like an animal, and fell against her. The sound turned her stomach, and she knew that guttural noise would feed her nightmares forever.
“Come on, Ricky.” Tommy’s voice shook, and she heard him frantically unbuckling his belt, yanking down his zipper. “You’ve had your shot, give somebody else a cha—”
The dog started its high-pitched barking again, and a light came on, spilling into the black, followed by the screech of a screen door being opened. “Who’s out there?” a woman called.
Becky Lynn opened her mouth to cry out, to scream for help, but nothing came out but a ragged whisper, so weak even the boys didn’t hear her.
“Oh, shit.” Buddy whimpered and released her legs. “Oh, shit, Ricky—”
“Shut the fuck—”
“I know somebody’s out there, and y’all better git. I’m callin’ the police. You hear me?”
The three boys froze. Becky Lynn could feel their sudden tension, could almost hear their thoughts— Buddy’s relief, Tommy’s disappointment, Ricky’s hatred.
“I’m callin’ the police,” the woman repeated, louder this time. “I’m callin’ ’em now.” The door slapped shut.
Buddy didn’t wait. He jumped up and ran, stumbling out of the brush and into the road, puking when he reached it.
“Come on, man.” Tommy sounded panicked, even though he didn’t release her hands. “We gotta go!”
“Thanks, baby,” Ricky whispered. “And don’t you fret none, I’ll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn.”
He bent his head and took her right nipple into his mouth, sucking it, swirling his tongue over it. She gagged, the tenderness of the gesture grotesque, obscene. He lifted himself from her, and she kicked out blindly and as hard as she could. She caught him in the groin. She knew by the feel and by the sound he made—a high whine of pain—and she wished she could see his face contort.
“Bitch! Cunt! I’ll—”
Tommy tugged on Ricky’s arm. “She called the cops, man! We’ve got to get out of here.”
Ricky must have agreed, for in the next moment, Tommy released her hands, and she heard the two boys run off.
Becky Lynn clawed at the paper bag, wrenching it off. She ripped at the stiff brown paper, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces, whimpering and grunting like a wounded animal. The paper cut her fingers; they burned and bled, but she kept tearing at the bag until nothing was left but pieces too small and broken to hold on to.
Shuddering uncontrollably, she slumped to her side and curled into a tight ball.
6
Light leaked from the edges of the small, haphazardly covered windows, spilling weakly into the darkness. With a strangled cry of relief, Becky Lynn crawled up onto the sagging front porch.
Home. She’d made it home at last.
She rested her forehead against the porch floor, struggling to even her shallow, ragged breathing. She hurt. Her belly, her head and jaw, between her legs. But the physical pain didn’t compare to the ache inside her, the ache that couldn’t be measured in physical terms, the damage that couldn’t be repaired or healed with bandage or salve. Inside, she’d been ripped to pieces.
She would never be whole again.
Shaking, Becky Lynn grasped the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet, trembling so badly she feared she would fall. She had no idea of the time, no idea how long she’d lain behind the outbuilding, bleeding and raw, waiting for the wail of the police siren that had never come.
Images, horrific and unwanted, flashed lightning-like through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach pitching. She held the vomit back through sheer force of will. She wouldn’t be sick, she wouldn’t allow Ricky and Tommy to take anything more from her—they’d already taken the only things that had been truly hers, the only things that had been worth having. Her body. The last vestige of her girlish idealism. Her hope.
She crossed the porch to the door, thinking for the first time of her family. She had never been late before, had never failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must look—dirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?
She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.
She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didn’t move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.
Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her?
The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. “How?” she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. “How…could you? You’re my brother.”
Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impression of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.
“When we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would come…near us. Remember?”
Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. “I would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many ti—” She curved her arms around herself. “And now you…you let them…do…this to—”
She choked this last back, unable to take her brother’s guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.
Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at her, at the way her fingers moved back and forth over the worn terry-cloth.
“Mama?” she whispered, clutching her hands together in a silent prayer. “Mama, please.”
Her mother blinked, focusing on her daughter for the first time. Shock moved across her mother’s expression, a dawning horror, then her features cleared, relaxing into an almost childlike mask. “Hello, baby.”
Becky Lynn swallowed. “Mama, look at me. Please.” She crossed to her mother and stopped directly before her. “I need you to see me, Mama.”
“Of course I see you, baby.” She tipped her head back, curving her lips into a small, simple smile. “Did Miss Opal keep you late?”
Becky Lynn shifted her gaze to the stove clock, its face cracked and coated with a film of grease but still readable. Nearly eleven. Five hours had passed since she’d left the Cut �n Curl. Five hours spent in hell.
“No, Mama.” Her chin began to quiver, and her eyes filled. “Mama, some boys…they… Mama, they hurt—”
Her mother shook her head and clucked her tongue. “She shouldn’t keep you so late on a school night.”
Becky Lynn drew in a ragged breath, her vision blurring. “Don’t do this, Mama. I…need you. Please. I need you so much.”
Her mother clutched her robe so tightly her knuckles poked out, stark and white even against the faded terry. “Go on to bed, baby. Everything will be better in the morning.”
Becky Lynn took a step backward, a cry slipping past her lips. Her mother couldn’t deal with this. She wouldn’t deal with it. Turning, Becky Lynn returned to the living room. She crossed to her father, stopping directly in front of him, blocking the TV.
“Daddy,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together, “please help me.”
He lifted his eyes to hers. His were dull and red from drink. He grunted.
“Some boys hurt me, Daddy. They—” Her throat closed over the words and she struggled to clear it. “They forced me…they—”
As if suddenly seeing her, her father moved his gaze over her. “Where’ve you been, girl?”
“I’m trying to tell you. Tommy Fischer and Ricky Jones—” She darted a glance at her brother. His head was lowered, his shoulders hunched. “They…they raped me. They knocked me down…and held my hands and feet—”
Her father lurched to his feet, forcing her backward. “Don’t you make up stories to cover your whoring!”
“No!” Becky Lynn shook her head violently. “No…they put a bag over my head and—”
“Randy?” Her father swung toward his son, weaving slightly. “Those boys your friends? The ones on the team?”
Randy glanced up, then away, looking like he wanted to puke. “Yes, sir.”
“They at the rally t’night?”
“Yes, sir.”
Becky Lynn fought for a breath. “It happened before the pep rally! They talked about how they were going to explain to the coach, they—”
“Lying whore,” her father snapped. “Get out of my sight, before I beat the hell out of you.”
Becky Lynn stumbled backward. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, white as a new sheet, visibly trembling. Becky Lynn met her eyes, pleading silently. Stand up for me. Mama, I need you.
But her mother didn’t stand up for her. For long moments, she stood gazing at her daughter, unmoving save for the way she clutched and released the vee of her robe.
Becky Lynn’s vision blurred. She had no one here. Not in this house. Not in Bend. No one who believed in her, no one who cared enough to stand up for her. Ricky and Tommy could rape her as often as they liked, and no one would care.
She blinked, clearing her vision, looking at her mother once more, a strange feeling of relief moving over her. Her mother had set her free. Now, truly, there was nothing for her in Bend.
Turning, Becky Lynn limped toward the bathroom.
“Don’t come cryin’ to me if you get knocked up!” her father shouted from behind her. “You hear me? I won’t have none of your ugly bastard brats in this house. You hear me?”
Becky Lynn closed the bathroom door behind her, muffling the sound of her father’s rage, and latched it. She crossed to the old claw-footed tub and turned on the faucets. Kneeling, she pushed the rubber stopper into the drain, then stood and stripped off her soiled clothing, avoiding her reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
They had put a bag over her head so the wouldn’t have to look at her while they raped her.
She stepped into the tepid water, then sank into it. It flowed sweetly over her, like a baptism, cleansing her of Ricky’s touch, his smell. His hate.
She rested her head against the cool porcelain and closed her eyes.
As if from outside her body, hovering above, she saw herself. Her body folded into the tub, scrunched down so she would be submerged, her skin so white it blended with the tub, the shock of red hair around her face, floating around her shoulders. The bruises. The blood that leaked from her and into the water, muddying it.
They would be back.
She wanted to cry, to howl with rage and pain, yet she had no tears, couldn’t muster emotion enough for rage. She felt…a numbness. A nothingness. A weird kind of void that was at once a sweet relief and completely terrifying.
As the water became almost too cool to bear, she opened her eyes and sat up. Carefully, she soaped her thighs, her bruised womanhood, washing away dirt and blood. She winced as she moved her hands over herself, knowing from experience that physical bruises healed. And that invisible ones did not.
There was blood underneath her fingernails, Tommy’s from when she’d scratched him, and she dug her nails into the soap, moving them back and forth on the slippery bar, not stopping until they were clear. Clean and free of him. She soaped her hair next, scrubbing it, rinsing it. Scrubbing again.
The water turned dark and ugly. Her stomach heaved, but she choked the sickness back. She drained the tub, then sat naked in the empty bath, her arms closed around herself, teeth chattering.
Thoughts raced dizzily, crazily through her head, like the twisted path of a roller coaster.
I won’t tell, Becky Lynn… You must promise me that if those boys do anything to you, you will come to me…
What did you hope to accomplish by telling Miss Opal… Who did you think was going to believe that we’d touch you… Our parents laughed…
Lying whore… Get out of my sight…
Don’t do this, Mama…I need you… Mama, please help me…
I’ll make sure Tommy and Buddy get their turn…
Tears choked her, and Becky Lynn gasped to breathe. She brought her hands to her face and sobbed, pressing her hands against her mouth to muffle the sound, wishing that, somehow, holding back the sounds of her pain would erase it.
After a time, the violence of her sobs lessened, then ceased altogether, until the only sound she had energy enough to make was a broken mewl of despair. Soon, even that became impossible and she rocked, her arms curved tightly around herself.
Reaching up, she turned the faucets on full blast, half expecting her father to burst into the bathroom and rage at her for wasting water. Even as she waited, clean water slipped over her again, inch by comforting inch. The water warmed her, bringing her senses back to life. She rested her cheek against her drawn-up knees, her mother’s words from what seemed like a lifetime ago, nudging into her consciousness.
You’re special, Becky Lynn. You could move away from Bend, make something of yourself.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pain ripping through her. Nothing could be special here. Not in this house. Not in Bend.
Tonight her mother had set her free.
She had to take care of herself, no one else would. And as much as she loved her mother, she couldn’t help her, couldn’t save her from the fate she had resigned herself to.
Becky Lynn leaned her head against the tub-back and pictured the places in her magazines, clean and lovely, populated by beautiful smiling people. She pictured the brilliant sun and the warm breeze, imagining both against her skin. It never rained in those places. There wasn’t any dirt, nor the lingering smell of sweat and rotting fields. In the places of her magazines, boys didn’t hurt girls just because they were ugly and poor.
She would go there, to California; she would start a new life.
Becky Lynn pulled the stopper from the drain and stood. Shivering, she dried herself, then wrapped the threadbare towel around her. She went to the bathroom door and cracked it open. The house slept. In the next room, her father snored.
Even though he was impossible to wake out of his drunken slumber, Becky Lynn tiptoed across the hallway and into her room. She dressed quickly and quietly, then threw her remaining clothes into a duffel bag, her few knickknacks and toiletries, she retrieved her toothbrush, the shampoo and toothpaste. She’d saved everything she’d made at the Cut �n Curl over the past couple of years, everything left over after her father had taken his share, and hidden it under a loose floorboard. Careful not to make a sound, she retrieved and counted it, then stuffed it into her jeans pocket.
Nearly two hundred dollars. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
She hesitated outside her parents’ door, then crept into their room. Her father’s slacks lay in a heap on the floor. She picked them up and searched one pocket, then the other. Her fingers closed over a couple crumpled bills. Hands shaking, she pulled them out. Twenties? Where had he gotten this money? she wondered. She didn’t care, he would only waste it on drink.
She took the money, keeping one twenty and putting the other into her mother’s secret grocery stash on her way out of the house.
At the front door, she stopped and turned back, taking one last look at the place she had called home for nearly seventeen years. She had called it home, but it had never been one. She had never been safe here, had never been loved.
She would never be trapped again.
As she slipped through the door, she thought she heard the sound of weeping—her mother’s weeping. Becky Lynn paused, her chest tightening. “Mama,” she whispered, taking an involuntary step back inside.
The smell of whiskey filled her head, a sense of smothering gray with it. She shook her head and her senses cleared, a familiar picture filling her head. Of blue skies and palm trees, of brilliant sun and smiling faces. Becky Lynn squared her shoulders. She couldn’t help her mother, couldn’t save her, no matter how much she wanted to.
The time had come to save herself.
Hiking her duffel bag higher on her shoulder, Becky Lynn turned her back on the house and life she had always known, and stepped out into the cold, black night.
Book Two
7
Los Angeles, California
1972
The way eight-year-old Jack Gallagher figured it, women were about the best things in the whole world. He loved the way they smelled, sweet like flowers, fresh like sunshine. He loved the way they felt, soft and warm and smooth; he loved their curves, their pillows of perfumed flesh, loved the way they spoke to him, in voices that were gentle and mostly lilting.
Jack’s earliest remembrances were not of his mother, his crib or toys, but of the changing parade of girl-models who had cuddled and stroked him, the girls who had given him kisses and candy, who had wiped his baby tears and brought him gifts.
Many a time as an infant and toddler he had nestled his face into a pair of smooth, soft breasts, and basked in the pure joy of it. His mother, the most wonderful of all the wonderful women in the world, said he had the ability to turn even the most ill-tempered and demanding model into a candidate for Miss Congeniality with nothing more than an adoring look or smile.
Men, on the other hand, he had learned, were not so easy to please. They had no time or use for a boy’s questions or curiosity. They made it plain that having him on the set was a nuisance they put up with only because of Sallie Gallagher’s abilities as a makeup artist, and only for as long as it suited their purposes.
From the beginning, he understood the importance of staying out of the way, of staying quiet while the others worked. The Great Ones, the photographers who moved like kings through the studios, making demands and accepting total obedience and deference as their due, did not like being interrupted or disturbed, especially by a small, inconsequential boy. And their displeasure, when evoked, was both swift and fierce.
So Jack had found places to hide and play, had created imaginary worlds where he was always the hero—the inside of a circular rack of clothes would become a castle or cave, a group of chairs shoved into a corner a magnificent sailing ship, the prop room an enchanted kingdom.
From his secret places, he had seen and learned many things. The first time he’d seen what men and women did together, how they touched each other, he’d almost peed in his pants. He remembered staring in shock and thinking it gross, impossible. He remembered looking down at himself and wondering if his would ever get so big.
He had also learned the rules of grown-up life: that the truth was negotiable, as was just about everything else in the world with the exception of artistic integrity; that life operated on the barter system—you gave someone something they wanted, you got something you wanted in return; and finally, he had learned that beautiful things were special. The most special. To have beauty in your possession was to have a prize, a measurable commodity worth as much—or more—than any other.
Jack slumped onto the battered leather couch, shoved against the far wall of the busy studio. At eight, he was too old to play such games, too old to hide and pretend. Instead, he stayed in the background while The Great Ones worked. He watched. And made his plans.
Made his plans because the last and most important thing he had learned from his secret hiding places was who he really was.
Giovanni’s bastard brat.
He hadn’t known what those words meant, not the time he’d first heard them, but they had stuck with him. They sounded important, although something about the way they’d been uttered had made him feel dirty, as though he’d done something he should be ashamed of.
He had kept the words to himself, guarding them, turning them over in his head. When he had finally found the courage to ask his mother, she’d looked unhappy and upset, but had gently explained. He had nodded in understanding, and had never brought it up again. Neither had she.
Jack drew his knees to his chest and studied The Great One. Giovanni was the greatest of all The Great Ones, considered the king of all the kings, the reigning monarch of fashion photography.
His father. Giovanni was his father.
Jack sucked in a deep breath, willing away his nerves, the tight fist of hope burning in his chest. Sissies and babies were nervous. And Jack Gallagher was neither baby nor sissy. He was the great Giovanni’s son, an important thing to be—he couldn’t be weak, or nervous, or too hopeful. It was time he started becoming a man, like Giovanni. His father.
Jack cocked his chin proudly and pictured himself walking through the studio, his father’s arm thrown casually but possessively across his shoulders. He pictured the others’ looks, could almost hear their whispers—Did you know, Jack is Giovanni’s son…
Jack had it all figured out; his mother had never told Giovanni that he was Jack’s father, she couldn’t have told. If she had, Giovanni wouldn’t brush by him as if Jack were nothing, he wouldn’t look through him as if Jack didn’t exist.
She hadn’t told because he was already married, and she didn’t want to cause trouble with his wife. Jack drew his eyebrows together. He’d also considered that his mother hadn’t wanted to share him with his father, but he didn’t like to think that was true. He was sure she’d had her reasons, and even though he loved his mother, he wanted Giovanni to know. He wanted a father. He wanted his father.
He would tell him. Today.
Jack smiled to himself and imagined Giovanni’s face when he told him. Imagined his initial surprise, then his pleasure. He would clasp Jack to his chest, then announce to all that he had found his son.
They would do things together. His father would show him how to do things, guy things. He would clap him on the shoulder in encouragement and approval, the way Jack had seen other fathers do to their sons.
Giovanni probably didn’t like baseball or fishing or camping out, but that was okay. It didn’t matter what the two of them did together, it was only important that they be together. That finally, he have his father.
A violent stream of Italian broke his reverie. Jack opened his eyes.
“I do not work with amateurs!” Giovanni shouted, in English now, handing his camera to his assistant. He strode forward to face the object of his displeasure, a young model just off the foreign circuit. She cringed.
“If you cannot give me what I want,” he demanded, gesturing broadly as was his way, “what good are you? If I have to ask you twice, you cost too much. There are many pretty faces, bella. If you want to be the face who works with Giovanni, then you give me what I ask for. Capisce?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wetting her lips. “I’ll try harder. I can do it. I know I can.”
Giovanni lowered his voice and gently tipped her face up to his. He trailed his thumb across her damp lower lip. “That’s what I want, bella, vulnerable. Your eyes now, they tell me everything. Yes!”
His assistant was beside him in a flash, handing him the camera. Giovanni began shooting immediately, alternating between shouting approval and insults.
The model would be in tears later, Jack knew. She would be exhausted, wrung out. He had seen this scenario played out a hundred times before. She would cry and curse and swear she was getting out of the business. She would curse Giovanni, call him a son of a bitch who deserved to die. But the chromes would be good. Very good. A successful session with Giovanni could make a career.
And later, she would trail adoringly after The Great One. And maybe, if The Great One was so inclined, she would do it with him.
Jack cocked his head to the side, studying the photographer as he worked. Giovanni was handsome, with the look of the Italian aristocracy he was reputed to be descended from. He had high cheekbones and a broad forehead, a chiseled mouth that could be either giving or forbidding, a slash of dark eyebrows over piercing eyes, eyes so dark they were almost black. He wore his hair brushed straight back from his face, and while he worked, it would sometimes fall across his forehead. The photographer would sweep it back with an impatience, a leashed power, that Jack watched with awe. Indeed, everything about Giovanni seemed powerful; he emanated it in waves that both exhilarated and cowed everyone around him.
Jack practiced being like Giovanni. At home he would stand in front of the mirror for hours, mimicking the older man’s gestures, his looks, the way he spoke. He would gaze at his own reflection, searching for the resemblances between them and despairing at the few he found: the shape of his face was wrong, more narrow and angular; his eyes weren’t dark and stormy, but the vivid blue of his mother’s; his hair, chestnut instead of black, wavy instead of straight. So he stared at his reflection and willed himself to grow as strong as his father, as powerful.
He would make his father proud. He didn’t know how or when, but he would.
Jack looked back at Giovanni. The photographer had wrapped for lunch; he was talking with the client and the ad agency’s art director. Everyone else was either eating or socializing. Giovanni never ate. He never socialized. He prowled and smoked cigarettes, he checked his equipment, he conferred with his assistants and drank the espresso he insisted on having whenever and wherever he was shooting.
This would be his only opportunity to approach his father, Jack knew. If he missed it, it could be weeks, or longer, before he got another.
As the art director and client walked away, leaving Giovanni alone, Jack jumped to his feet, excitement and stark terror clawing at his gut. He’d been waiting all his life for this day. He wasn’t going to blow it just because he was scared.
He started across the studio toward the photographer, palms sweating, legs unsteady. He reached him and squared his shoulders. “Excuse me.”
Giovanni turned slowly. He glared down at Jack, arching his eyebrows ever so slightly as if considering a pesky insect.
Jack shifted under the man’s stare, panic turning his mouth to vinegar. “I…um…I—”
Those dark eyebrows arched a fraction higher, and the man made a soft sound of impatience. “Well?”
Jack shifted from one foot to the other, searching for the best way to start. He must have taken a fraction too long, because with a snort, Giovanni started to turn away.
Jack’s heart stopped. He’d lost his chance! After all this time, all his waiting, he couldn’t just let him walk away! He grabbed the photographer’s arm. “Wait!”
Giovanni stopped and looked back. Beneath his hand, Jack felt the photographer stiffen.
“I just—” His throat closed over the words, and he cleared it. “I just wanted you to know that…you’re my…dad.”
Giovanni said nothing. He simply continued to stare at Jack, his expression unchanging. To his horror, Jack felt tears prick his eyes. They gathered in his throat and chest, threatening to choke him.
He fought them off, barely. “Did you…did you know that?”
“Of course.” Giovanni frowned, his dark eyebrows lowering ominously. “Your mother and I have an arrangement.”
An arrangement? His mother and Giovanni had…an arrangement? What did that mean? “I don’t…understand. You’re my father.”
“I have a son. Carlo is my son.” Giovanni shook off Jack’s hand, turned and walked away.
Jack stared after him, frozen to the spot, his world crashing in around his ears. Giovanni had already known about him. He had known all along.
His father didn’t want him. He had never wanted him.
Tears choked him. He thought of his dreams, his plans, thought of the hours he’d spent imagining them together as father and son, and a howl of pain and rage flew to his throat. He battled it back, fingers squeezed into tight fists.
His father had another son—Carlo. A son he called his own, a son he wanted. Hatred and jealousy built inside Jack, stealing his hurt, his urge to cry. Carlo, Jack thought again, despising the sound of the name.
Jack lifted his gaze. It landed on Giovanni, standing across the room, talking with a model. He set his jaw in determination. Giovanni would want him for his son. Someday, Jack promised himself. Someday, Giovanni would want him.
8
Someday, Giovanni would want him for his son.
Jack’s promise to himself was never far from his mind. It burned bright and hot inside him, coloring each year that passed, years that transformed him from a trusting boy into a cocky, worldly-wise sixteen-year-old.
That day, those words, shaped his life. They gave him direction, focus. He vowed he would prove himself worthy of his father’s love. He vowed he would show Giovanni what a great mistake he had made when he rejected him.
At first, he hadn’t known how he would do it; he had only known the desire twisted in his gut so tightly, there were days he thought of nothing else. Then it had come to him. He would meet his father, and beat him, in his own arena.
So while the other boys in his class at high school had involved themselves with sports and girls and parties, he had planned his future. He read everything he could about photography, talked to every assistant who would give him the time of day, studied every photographer’s technique, equipment preference and work habits.
He had needed a camera, so he had worked anywhere he could for anyone who would pay him. After school, he’d grocery shopped and run errands for the old ladies in the apartments around his and his mother’s. At night, he’d bussed tables and done dishes at the Italian restaurant on the corner. At shoots, he’d done the gofer work everyone else hated. He now owned a used Nikon F2 with a motor drive and two lenses.
Jack ran his fingers lovingly over the camera’s black metal body, over its levers and buttons. His camera. His first piece of professional equipment, the first of many. He would need a medium-format camera soon, more lenses, tripods, lights, umbrellas and darkroom supplies; he would need a place to work.
But the 35mm was a good place to start, it gave him flexibility and mobility. It was the single piece of equipment that Giovanni used more than any other.
Jack frowned and set the camera back on the shelf above his desk. Since that day eight years before, he’d only seen The Great One a handful of times. His mother had stopped bringing him to Giovanni’s shoots. She’d claimed it was her own choice and had nothing to do with the photographer, but Jack thought otherwise. He believed Giovanni had asked her to keep him away. As if by keeping him out of sight, he could deny his existence.
Whenever Jack thought about it, his determination, and his anger, grew.
As did his curiosity about his half brother. He wondered about him: what he was doing, what he looked like, if they would like each other if they ever met. He never allowed himself the foolishness of imagining them as friends, as real brothers; facing his father had taught him a powerful lesson about caring too much and about opening himself for rejection. He had promised himself he would never be so naive again.
But he wondered about Carlo, anyway. He looked for him. For some mention of him, for a picture. His mother, an avid face-watcher, took all the fashion magazines, took glossies like Vanity Fair and Lears, took commercial pulp like People. He scoured them all.
Finally, he had found a mention in People’s Passages section. Carlo’s mother, a former model, after having been involved in a tragic, disfiguring car crash, had committed suicide. The blurb mentioned her husband, fashion photographer great Giovanni, and their son Carlo.
Jack slid open the magazine and stared at the blurb and accompanying photograph, eyebrows drawn together in thought. She’d been beautiful, Carlo’s mother. Now she was dead. Did that mean Carlo would come to live with Giovanni? Had he already? The magazine was many months old, the news could have been dated already by the time the magazine had gone to press.
From the other room, Jack heard the sounds of his mother moving around, getting ready for work. It was early, not quite six, but she had a shoot with Giovanni today, a big editorial spread for Vogue, and support staff had to be on location and working hours before the shoot actually began.
She would know about Carlo.
He stood, tucked the magazine under his arm and sauntered to the other room. His mother stood in front of her bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. He cocked his head, considering his mother. Tall and curvaceous with flyaway sandy-colored hair, a scattering of freckles and a fondness for offbeat clothes, his mother looked part tomboy and part bohemian bombshell.
He stopped in the doorway and smiled at her. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey to you.” She looked at him, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re up and dressed early.”
“You know how excited I get about school.”
She made a face at his sarcasm. “If you put a little effort into it, you might enjoy it.”
“I don’t have anything in common with all those kids. They’re like babies.” He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans. “Big job today?”
“Mmm. Giovanni has eight models booked. It’s going to be tough wrapping the shoot in one day.”
“I’d like to come. I could help out.”
She frowned and dropped her lipstick into the small zipper bag she took everywhere. She met his gaze in the glass, then looked away. “You have school.”
“So? I’ve missed before.”
“You’re in high school now. It’s different. The stakes are higher.”
“I get okay grades. I hold my own.”
“You’re very bright, Jack. And I’m proud of what you’ve done.” She zipped the bag. “My answer is still no.”
“I can’t go because Giovanni doesn’t want me around.” He folded his arms across his chest. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “We’ve been through this before, Jack. Your not coming has had nothing to do with Giovanni. It’s been my decision.”
“Is his precious Carlo going to be there? Is that why he doesn’t want me around?”
She made a sound of surprise. “What do you know about Carlo?”
He handed her the magazine, opened to the blurb. She read it and met his eyes. “I see you know the basics.”
Jack cocked his chin. “Is he living with his dear, devoted daddy? Is that why I’ve been shut out of all the great man’s shoots? Giovanni doesn’t want his legitimate son dirtied by contact with his illegitimate one, right?”
He said the last with a sneer, and his mother’s features tightened with anger. “You know better than that, Jack. I don’t want you there because I don’t think it’s good for you. And yes, Carlo is living with his father. He’s been on location with us.”
“I want to get a look at him. That’s all.” Jack made a sound of frustration. “He’s my half brother, I don’t see why wanting that is so wrong.”
She crossed to him. Even though she was tall and he was only sixteen, she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “I don’t think it’s good for you to be around Giovanni or Carlo.”
“Why?”
She touched his cheek lightly then sighing, dropped her hand. “Isn’t it obvious? Giovanni hurt you. The situation is hurtful. I love you, Jack. I don’t want you hurt more than you already have been.”
“I can handle it,” he said, curving his fingers into fists. “I’m not a baby, after all. I’m not eight anymore. I won’t cry, for Pete’s sake.”
She said nothing. He saw sympathy in her eyes, and he hated it. He turned away from her and crossed to the window. He stared out at the street for a moment before turning back to her, frustrated. “I want to go. I love going on location. Those people are my friends. I belong there.”
She shook her head. “Not this time. I’m sorry. Maybe another.”
“Mom, I—” He bit the words back, angry with her, furious that Carlo would be there, and he was being excluded. “You say you’re doing this to protect me, it feels like you’re punishing me.”
“Oh, Jack. That’s the last thing I want you to feel.” She went to stand beside him, and laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be around Giovanni or Carlo. Try to understand, I’m your mother and I have to do what I think is best for you.”
“Well, you’re wrong. It’s not what’s best.” He shook off her hand, knowing it would hurt her. “It’s unfair. And it stinks.”
“I’m sorry, Jack, but I’ve made my decision.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He swung away from her. “Thanks a lot.”
Jack went to school, but he didn’t stay. He wanted to get a look at his brother. He wanted to meet him. He decided, despite what his mother wanted or thought, that was exactly what he was going to do.
The shoot was being held at Giovanni’s studio; Jack had been there at least a hundred times before. Giovanni preferred studio work, he preferred sharp, controlled lighting and minimal backgrounds. Using both with figure and fashion created an almost surrealist fashion scenario, one that had been the hallmark of his style. Critics lauded his work as portraying the existentialism of modern life with a cool, sexual chic. It stirred the viewer. It created controversy. It had made him a star.
Giovanni’s studio was located in an old warehouse district in Los Angeles. Not the most trendy or safest part of the city, it afforded the huge, reasonably priced spaces required by fashion photographers. Giovanni’s space encompassed two floors of an old furniture warehouse. On those two floors there were changing and wardrobe rooms, several prop rooms, a room for makeup, one for hair, two bathrooms, an office and two large spaces for shooting, one with an abundance of natural light, one with none. The second-floor studio had an eight foot by eight foot section of floor that could be removed to provide dramatic, bird’s-eye angle shooting from above.
Jack made it onto the set without problem. Tank, as everyone called Giovanni’s doorman/driver/bouncer, let him in, commenting on how little they’d seen of him lately. Jack shrugged, told him he’d been busy and swaggered inside.
Jack saw that he’d come at a good time—things were not going well. Giovanni was shouting at everyone in English and Italian—the lighting wasn’t right, the models were incompetent, his assistants slow. The entire staff was under fire, and everyone was rushing to make corrections and adjustments.
No one had time to notice him, and he made it to the second floor without being spotted by his mother. Jack found an unobtrusive spot behind the action and looked for him. He didn’t have to look far. Carlo stood beside Giovanni, so close their shoulders almost brushed, hanging, Jack could tell, on his father’s every word. As Giovanni talked, he put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Possessively. Proudly. The way a father did a son.
Jack swallowed hard, not able to take his eyes from the two, even though watching them made him ache. Giovanni explained the lighting to Carlo, explained what he was looking for and why he wasn’t satisfied. The father teaching the son, sharing his knowledge, his experience. The way a father was supposed to, the way Jack had once fantasized Giovanni would show and teach him.
“Hey, Jack.”
He dragged his eyes from Giovanni and Carlo to look at the model who had come up to stand beside him. Gina was seventeen, but had started modeling on the circuit at twelve. Dressed now in a low-cut satin sheath, with her hair swept up on top of her head and diamonds dripping from her ears, she looked twenty-five. And sexy as hell. Many of his adolescent daydreams had centered around her.
Jack smiled. “Hey to you.”
“That’s Giovanni’s son,” the model whispered, following his gaze. “Carlo.”
Giovanni’s son. Hearing the words spoken affected him like a fist to his chest. His breath caught and he struggled to speak and breathe normally. “Yeah? How come I’ve never seen him before?”
“He’s been around the last couple of months.” She reached up to brush a curl off her forehead, then dropped her hand. One of the first rules of modeling was never touch your hair or face—doing so could ruin what the hair and makeup people had spent hours creating, and earn a major chewing out.
She leaned closer. “His mother killed herself. Slit her wrists. Rumor mill has it that he found her. Gross, huh?”
Jack’s chest tightened. He couldn’t imagine his mother doing such a thing, let alone finding her that way. “Tough break,” he muttered, not wanting to feel sympathy even as the emotion welled up inside him.
Gina laid a hand on his arm. “He’s cute, don’t you think? He looks like his dad.”
Sympathy evaporated, replaced by something harder and colder. Something that squeezed him so tightly, it hurt to breathe. Carlo did look like Giovanni. He had the man’s dark hair and eyes, the same build and skin tone—all the things Jack had so longed to see in himself all those years ago.
He scowled at the model. “If you like that swarthy European type.”
She giggled. “Sara does.”
He arched his eyebrows, not in the mood for games. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She leaned even closer. “I hear he and Sara did it.”
Jack caught a whiff of cosmetics and hair spray, her satin bodice brushed against his arm. His body stirred; his mouth turned to ash.
“Like father like son, I guess.” She moved her fingers in a rhythmic sweeping motion on his forearm. “I hear Carlo gets around. A real party animal.”
Jack swallowed, his eyes dropping to the plunging neckline of Gina’s dress. He caught a glimpse of one small, round breast. “No way,” he murmured, his jeans growing tight. He shifted uncomfortably, not thinking about Carlo doing it, but about himself doing it. With Gina. “He’s just bragging.”
“Uh-uh. I heard it from Sara herself.” She giggled again and darted a glance over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go.” She squeezed his arm and met his eyes. “Catch me later. Okay?”
Jack watched her walk away, his heart thundering, his mouth dry. He had kissed Gina. Once. He remembered that wet, desperate exchange in the dark wardrobe room and arousal tightened in his gut.
He had wanted to kiss her again, but they’d been interrupted. In truth, he had wanted to do more than kiss her. Much more.
He still did. So bad he ached.
Tugging, inconspicuously, he hoped, at the crotch of his jeans, he turned his gaze back to Carlo and Giovanni. Was it true? he wondered. Had Carlo and Sara done it?
He scowled, jealousy clawing at him. He didn’t want to believe it, but Gina and Sara were friends, good friends. They were the same age and had gotten into the business about the same time. He couldn’t imagine either of them lying about this.
That meant his brother had had sex. Something he had only fantasized about. “Like father like son,” Gina had said. Photography wasn’t the only arena where his father was a legend. For years, Jack had listened to the models whisper behind their hands about what a great lover Giovanni was. Carlo, it appeared, was following in his father’s footsteps.
An hour passed. While Giovanni worked in earnest, Carlo milled around the studio, talking and laughing with people on the set. Jack never took his eyes off the other boy, anger and resentment building inside him. These were his friends, people he had grown up with. He hated that Carlo seemed to have fitted in so quickly, he hated that everyone seemed to like his half brother. He told himself he had no reason to feel betrayed, but he did, anyway.
Carlo stopped beside Gina and bent close to whisper in her ear. The model tipped her head back and laughed, and Carlo placed his hand on the small of her back. He leaned close again, and as Jack watched, he moved his fingers a fraction lower.
Jack saw red. Gina was his, and he wasn’t about to let this come-lately son of a bitch make a move on the girl he wanted. He thundered across the studio, not bothering with stealth, forgetting about Giovanni, about his mother and the fact he wasn’t even supposed to be here.
Jack reached the two in moments and stopped beside them. “Take your hand off her,” he said, fisting his fingers.
Carlo turned slowly and met Jack’s eyes. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Jack glared at Carlo. “Take your hand off her. Now.”
Carlo’s mouth tipped up in a lazy, amused smile. “Fuck you. I don’t hear her complaining.”
Jack took a step closer, his blood boiling. “She doesn’t have to, I’m complaining for her.”
“Jack,” Gina whispered, paling.
Carlo narrowed his eyes. He swept his gaze over Jack, recognition dawning in his eyes. “So you’re the bastard.”
Anger charged through Jack, but he held on to it. “And you’re the dickhead.”
“I wondered when we would meet.” Carlo arched his eyebrows arrogantly. His English was perfect, but he spoke with a slight accent. The accent made him seem more mature, more sophisticated than Jack. Jack felt ten years younger instead of only one. He hated that.
While Jack struggled for a comeback, Carlo laughed softly. “Dad told me about you. He said you were…an embarrassment.”
Jack wanted to lunge at him. He fought to control the urge. He took a step closer to the other boy. A full head shorter than his half brother, Carlo was forced to tip his head back to keep Jack’s gaze. “That may be, but I could kick your ass.”
“You Americans, always such cowboys. I’ve never understood it.”
“You Italians, always such pussies. I’ve never understood it.” They’d attracted attention, and a growing group gathered around them. Jack ignored them and curled his hands into fists. “Come on, I’ll take you on right now.”
“Dannazione!” Giovanni shouted, striding across the set, his face red with rage. “What the hell is going on?” A nervous titter moved through the crowd, even as it parted for him. He stopped in front of Carlo. “What are you doing?” he demanded again, turning his furious gaze on his son. “Explain yourself, Carlo. Immediatamente!”
Carlo paled, his cool arrogance disappearing. “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.” He cleared his throat. “I was just talking, and this…this boy started a fight.”
Giovanni turned to Jack, his expression thunderous. “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here.”
Those words hurt more than any others could have. Jack slipped his fingers into the back pockets of his blue jeans and shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Hanging out. What are you doing here?”
Giovanni swore. “How dare you two disrupt this shoot.”
“You’re right,” Carlo said quickly. “I’m sorry. My behavior was unforgivable.”
Jack angled up his chin. “Seems to me, you’re the one who’s disrupting this shoot. We were just…talking.”
“You impertinent little shit.” The photographer swept back the hair that fell across his forehead. “Get out! I don’t want to see you again. Not ever. You understand?”
“No problem, Dad. But you get this. One day, I’ll be kicking you off my set. One day, you’re going to see what a big mistake you made.”
Giovanni hesitated, surprise flickering across his expression. Then he swore. “Tank! Escort this…bastardo out.”
“Jack!”
Jack turned to see his mother pushing through the crowd, her expression stricken. He swore silently.
“What’s going on?” She stopped beside him and looked from him to Giovanni to Carlo and back. “What are you doing here?”
Jack opened his mouth to explain; Giovanni spoke first. “I should fire you right now, Sallie. If I ever see your boy on my set again, I will. And if I fire you, nobody else will hire you. Got that?”
“You leave my mother out of this, you son of a bitch!” Jack faced the older man, his fists clenched. “I came on my own, and this has nothing to do with her.”
“It has everything to do with her, because you’re her son. Think of that the next time you decide to tangle with me.” Giovanni clapped his hands. “Show’s over. Everybody back to work.”
Tank grabbed Jack’s arm. He shook off the beefy man’s hand. “I don’t need any help,” he said tightly. “I’m going.”
He turned and walked away, aware of his mother’s distress and his half brother’s amusement. Emotions churned in his gut, and he muttered an oath. He hadn’t meant to lose his cool. He hated that Carlo had gotten the best of him, hated that—
“Jack, wait!”
Jack stopped at the front door and turned. Gina hurried to catch up with him, her progress slowed by her gown’s narrow skirt.
When she reached him, she glanced over her shoulder, then returned her gaze to him. “Outside.”
They stepped through the door and sunshine spilled over them, almost blinding after the artificial light of the studio. She smiled. “I just wanted to, you know, tell you that I liked what you did in there.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’m…flattered that you got into a fight over me. It was cool.”
One corner of Jack’s mouth lifted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She moved closer and laid her hands on his chest. She tipped her head back to gaze provocatively up at him. “I’m sorry you have to go, though.”
He placed his hands on her hips, instantly aroused. “Come with me.”
She made a sound of disappointment. “I can’t. You know that.”
He inched her closer. He wanted to kiss her, and he knew in his gut that she would let him. But he also knew it would ruin her mouth and get her in trouble. Instead, he trailed a finger over her collarbone and down to the place slippery satin ended and warm flesh began. She shuddered.
“Meet me later,” he murmured.
“Where?”
“You tell me.”
She thought a moment. “My house. Bring your books. I’ll tell my mother you’re helping me with my French.”
“I don’t know dip about French.”
She smiled, slow and sexy, and his pulse went crazy. “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll teach you.”
She turned and walked to the door. When she reached it, she turned back to him. “Eight-thirty. I’m in the book.” Without another word, she turned and walked inside.
9
By the time Jack got home, the rush of adrenaline and anger that had enabled him to boldly face down Giovanni had evaporated, leaving in its wake shaking hands, a runaway heart and legs that felt like rubber.
Jack fell onto his bed and struggled to draw in a deep, even breath. He couldn’t put his mother’s face, her stricken expression, out of his mind. Giovanni had blamed her for her son’s actions. He had threatened to fire her, had warned that if he did, no one else in the industry would hire her.
The last hadn’t been an idle threat. He had seen the cold determination in the photographer’s eyes. Giovanni didn’t care about Sallie Gallagher or her livelihood; he wouldn’t think twice about ruining her professional reputation.
And, Jack knew, it wouldn’t take much. Getting fired once could do it. The fashion industry was a small one, one in which everyone knew everybody else’s business. He’d seen people from every area of the business have to fight their way back after having screwed up once. Time was money, the client’s money. And clients paid astronomical day rates for models and photographers and support personnel. One major shoot could cost upward of a hundred thousand dollars. Everyone had to do their job, do it well and quickly.
Jack glared at his ceiling, at the long, thin crack that ran diagonally across it. Dammit. He’d really messed things up for her. He hadn’t thought further than himself, hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions or that they might affect anyone else. It had never even occurred to him. It did now.
Gina. He squeezed his eyes shut, arousal charging through him. She had told him to “catch her later” and had promised to teach him French.
French. Did that mean what he thought it did?
Tonight could be the night. It could happen, he could lose his virginity.
He sat up and dragged his hands through his hair, his head filled with images of Gina: Gina smiling at him; Gina, her body outlined by clinging satin; Gina, her lips moist and parted. He sucked in a sharp breath. He’d been waiting his whole life for this opportunity. He wasn’t about to miss it.
Four hours later, Jack glanced at the stove, at the pot of RagГє spaghetti sauce that bubbled there. He had made a salad, Italian bread was buttered and ready for the oven.
Where was she? He looked at the clock and frowned. Almost six-thirty. At five, everyone connected with a shoot either went home or on overtime. And overtime was avoided at all costs.
So, where was she?
Even as the question moved through his head for the dozenth time, he heard the front door open. Show time. He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling six instead of sixteen. “Hey, Mom,” he called. “I’m in here.”
She came into the kitchen. Without looking at him, she dropped her purse on the counter and reached for the mail.
He cleared his throat. “Hi, Mom.”
She lifted her gaze from the mail and fixed it on him. She didn’t smile. “Hello, son.”
He swallowed hard. She was still angry. And she was hurt. He felt like a complete jerk. “I made dinner.”
“I see that.” She returned her attention to the mail. “It looks good.”
She said nothing more, and he shifted from his right foot to his left, her silence damning and uncomfortable. Unable to take it another moment, he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.”
She met his eyes. “Are you?”
He hung his head and stubbed the toe of his Nike against the tile floor.
“I can’t tell you how upset I am by this.” She made a sound of frustration. “What were you thinking of? Disobeying me that way, behaving like that at a shoot? You know better.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, folding his arms across his chest but hiking his chin up stubbornly. “I didn’t think. I just…reacted.”
“Do you see now why I didn’t want you there? Do you understand?” She crossed to the stove and stared at the pot of sauce for long moments, then turned to face him once more, her expression troubled. “Did you get it out of your system, Jack? Do you think you can leave it alone now?”
“What do you mean?” He drew his eyebrows together. “Get what out of my system?”
“Carlo, Giovanni, the whole thing. This obsession you have isn’t healthy. I sympathize, I do. But—”
“Obsession?” he interrupted. “You think I’m obsessed with them? Great, Mom. Just great.”
“What do you expect me to think?” She crossed to stand before him and looked him directly in the eye. “Why do you want to be a fashion photographer?”
“It has nothing to do with him.” He glared at her, so angry he could hardly speak. “I…I just like it. It’s cool.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“I hate when you say my name like that, as if you pity me.” He spun away from her, crossed to the refrigerator, then faced her once more, fists clenched. “What do you expect me to feel? Shouldn’t I be curious about my half brother? Shouldn’t I wonder about him? Is that so weird? Maybe you’d understand if your mother had put you in the same position. But she didn’t, did she?”
Sallie flinched at the blow. “You have to let your anger and your hurt go, Jack. You say I can’t understand them, but I think I can. You have to let them go.”
She crossed the room and stopped in front of him. She reached out to touch his cheek, but he jerked his head away. “Don’t let your anger at Giovanni, or me, control your life. If you do, it’ll ruin it.”
She didn’t understand, Jack thought. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t even angry. He hated Giovanni. And he was going to show him what a big mistake he had made.
“You know about that. Right, Mom? About ruining lives.”
She took a step back from him, looking as if he had slapped her.
Remorse barreled through him, but he knew it was too late to take back his words.
“How have I ruined your life?” she asked softly. “By having you? By loving you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stuffing his hands into his front jeans pockets. “I didn’t mean that.”
“But I think you did. And that’s why I’m worried.”
“Mom—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “No more. Not now.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “There are some things I need to discuss with you, but I can’t now. I’m going out tonight.”
“Out?” Jack repeated, surprised. His mother rarely went out at night. She spent so much time on location out of town that when in town, she enjoyed being home.
“I’m meeting an old friend.” She slipped out of her vest and hung it on the back of one of the chairs set up around the small oak table. “You’ve never met her. She got out of the business right around the time you were born.”
“She was a makeup artist, too?”
“She did hair. She opened her own salon fifteen years ago and has done quite well.”
Jack frowned. Something about his mother’s tone bothered him. “Why are you meeting her?”
She met his gaze, drawing her eyebrows together. “I told you, she’s an old friend. Besides, it’s not your place to question me. I’m the parent here, and you’re in big trouble.”
“But Mom—”
“No buts.” She crossed to the phone. “I’m calling Mrs. Green next door to let her know I’m going out and to ask her to check up on you.”
“Check up on me?” Jack squared his shoulders, outraged. “I’m sixteen, not twelve.”
“Then act it.” She picked up the phone. “You’re not to leave the house. No television tonight, no phone, no stereo.”
No Gina. He took a step toward her, hand out in entreaty. “But, Mom, I wanted to ask if I could go—”
“No way.” She punched out the neighbor’s number, then propped the phone to her ear with her shoulder. “You’re grounded.”
Grounded? He bristled. She had never done that to him before, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
When she got off the phone, they ate dinner. Quickly and without conversation. They straightened up the kitchen together, then she went to freshen up. While she did, Jack thought about Gina, about her invitation and about the evening’s possibilities.
The evening had no possibilities, he reminded himself glumly. He was grounded. Swearing under his breath, he dragged out the phone book and looked up Gina’s number.
He found it, picked up the phone, then returned the receiver to its cradle without dialing. He wasn’t going to cancel his date.
Mrs. Green never heard a thing. He called the woman early, told her he wasn’t feeling well and was going to turn in. Although only eight, it sounded as if he had awakened her. Some watchdog. He slipped out of the apartment and headed down the street to Tony’s, the Italian restaurant where he worked. Danny, one of the other busboys, had offered to lend Jack his wheels before. Tonight, Jack was going to take him up on his offer.
With a promise to have the car back by midnight, he started off. Gina lived in the Hollywood Hills, located in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains. He found her house without a problem, though it took longer than he had expected.
Grabbing the stack of textbooks—none of them French—he started up her walkway. He prayed she was here and wasn’t too mad that he was late.
Gina opened the door before he had a chance to knock. She wore a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a chambray shirt, tucked into her denims and unbuttoned at her throat. He moved his gaze over her, his chest tight. “You look…great.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Sorry. It was tough getting out tonight.”
“Your mom’s really pissed, huh?”
“You could say that.” Gina stepped aside so he could enter. He looked around. The house was modest in size but very nice; the wall across from the door was covered with framed copies of Gina’s ads and magazine covers.
“My mother’s wall of glory,” she murmured, following his gaze.
He returned his gaze to her. “Where is she?”
“Out with her boyfriend.” Gina made a face. “The guy’s a sleaze ball.”
Her mother was out? Jack’s pulse began to thud. “She didn’t mind that I was coming over?”
“She didn’t know, and she won’t be home till late. She never is.” Gina grinned and motioned with her head. “Come on.”
She led him to the back of the house, to a large, comfortable room outfitted with leather furniture, light oak paneling and wall-to-wall bookshelves. “This was my dad’s room before he left. I spend a lot of time in here.”
“Your dad left?”
“A couple years ago. He’s living in Laguna now with his girlfriend.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Mom says it’s a case of arrested development. Sharla isn’t much older than I am.” Gina shuddered. “I have friends older than she is.”
“I’m sorry.”
Gina shrugged and plopped down onto a big couch. She patted the seat next to her. “Sit by me.”
He swallowed, his throat dry, and realized he was nervous. He berated himself silently. He would bet Carlo was never nervous. He would bet that by now, Carlo would have already gotten his hand in her pants.
Disgusted with himself, Jack crossed and sat on the couch. He turned to face her, and threaded his fingers through her silky blond hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
She flushed, pleased. Cupping the back of her head, he drew her toward him and kissed her, slowly and deeply. She sighed and wound her fingers in his hair.
He ended the kiss, but didn’t release her or move away. “I’ve been fantasizing about doing that since the last time.”
Her lips curved up. “Then why don’t you do it again?”
Jack didn’t have to be asked twice. He caught her mouth, then her tongue. Gina didn’t waste any time. Their lips pressed together, she unbuttoned his shirt. When she’d pushed it off his shoulders, she started unbuttoning her own.
He pushed her hands away, and with shaking fingers did it for her. Within moments, she was nude from the waist up. Jack gazed at her perfect breasts, at their soft fullness, at her nipples, standing straight out, begging for his mouth, and he struggled to get his breath. He thought he might explode just looking at her.
“You can touch them,” she whispered, straddling his lap.
With a groan, he cupped her breasts, then buried his face in them. She smelled like flowers and felt like heaven. He breathed deeply, his heart thundering in his chest, the pulse in his head.
She rocked against him, her soft pelvis to his hard one, his arousal painfully evident. He sucked in a ragged breath and shifted his hips. “Oh, God, Gina…” He groaned and moved against her again.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and nipped his earlobe. “Did you bring a rubber?”
His heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. He’d blown it! Shit, shit… How could he have been such an idiot?
Groaning, he dropped his head against the couch back. “I didn’t…uh…think that we were—”
“Going to do it?”
“Yeah.”
She rested her hands on his shoulders. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
Jack flushed, thought about lying, but figured he wouldn’t get away with it. He nodded. “Are you?”
“Nope. Lost it at fourteen. To my uncle.”
“Your uncle?” Jack repeated, swallowing hard. “Did he, you know?”
“Rape me?” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. And it’s not as bad as it sounds. He’s my father’s brother by his father’s second marriage. He was only twenty-four.”
She leaned into him and her breasts pressed against his chest. It felt so incredible, he thought he was going to die. “Does that bother you?” she asked.
“That you did it with your uncle?”
“No.” She rocked her pelvis against his once more. “That I’m not a virgin.”
Jack couldn’t see why it would bother a guy. After all, the two of them fumbling their way through the act couldn’t be nearly as pleasurable as her guiding him would be. He shook his head. “Does it bother you that I am?”
“I think it’s sweet. I’ve never been anybody’s first before.” She walked her fingers up his chest. “I liked the way you stood up to The Great One today.”
He smiled. “Yeah?”
“It was a real turn-on. I never saw anybody stand up to him before.”
“Maybe more people should.” He slipped his arms around her and stroked her back. “He’s an arrogant asshole.”
“So, do you want to do it?”
He wanted to do it so bad, he felt as if he were going to explode. He forced back the frenzy building inside him. “What about…protection?”
She thought for a moment, then grinned. “We’re safe. No way am I getting pregnant tonight.”
Thank God. He had waited so long for this.
They came together in a frenzy of mutual excitement. Jack moved his hands, then his mouth, over her. Her skin was soft and warm and white. And so smooth. He cupped and kneaded and stroked her breasts. He nipped and licked her nipples, liking the way they drew into tight buds, not able to get enough.
She fell onto her back, dragging him with her. He ran his fingers over her curves and valleys, he slipped his hand under the waistband of her jeans, not stopping until he reached the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs. He dipped his hand in, touching a woman for the first time. She was unbelievably hot there, and wet. He slipped his fingers into her and she cried out, throbbing against his hand.
He almost came in his pants. He took his hands away from her long enough to strip out of his clothes, his jeans almost impossible to get off because of his erection. She wiggled out of her jeans, too, and after she kicked them aside, she drew him on top of her, then inside her.
She was hot and wet and tight. The breath hissed from his lungs. So this is what it’s all about, he thought, amazed, stunned. No wonder…no wonder…
He would never be the same, he knew. In the space of a heartbeat, his life was changed forever. This thing, this act, was more powerful than anything he had ever experienced or felt, with the exception of his hatred for Giovanni. And where his hatred for Giovanni ate at him, this released him. He suddenly understood things he hadn’t before—why his mother had done what she’d done, why she had gotten involved with a man who didn’t love her, why men and women hurt each other, why they clung to each other.
With understanding, some of his anger slipped away. His mother hadn’t had a choice, this pull was too strong to deny.
He didn’t know how he had lived so long without this. He knew he would never be able to live without it again.
Her body caressed his, stroked his. He moved instinctively, racing toward release, too involved in his own pleasure, and wonder, to think about hers. And then it was over, quicker than he would have liked. Much quicker.
He ran his fingers over her face, already thinking about doing it again, wondering if she would. Wondering now, too late, if she had been satisfied, worrying that she hadn’t.
He had read things, had heard the models talk about which guys were the best lovers, which ones took the time to make them happy. He wanted Gina to be happy. He wanted to be one of the photographers they whispered about and called a fantastic lover. The way they whispered about Giovanni.
Her eyes were closed. He cleared his throat, and she looked at him. “Was it…okay for you? I…hope it was.”
She smiled, her eyes filling with tears. “Yeah. Thanks for asking. Nobody has before.”
He frowned and threaded his fingers through her hair. “Nobody?”
“Uh-uh. We were always more rushed.” She slipped her hands behind his neck, her expression somehow sad. “Except for the first time, it was always on location. So we had to hurry. And be careful not to muss my face and hair.”
He wanted to ask who she had made it with. The question pushed at him, but he fought it back. He rolled onto his side so they faced each other. He wasn’t surprised, not really. He knew what went on between models, photographers and about everyone else associated with the business.
It was just that Gina was so young and that until this year—as was industry practice—her mother had accompanied her to every go-see, every shoot. He asked her about it.
She nuzzled her face into his shoulder. “Mother and I have been doing this so long, she doesn’t notice much anymore. Besides, she’s so caught up in the whole thing, I don’t think she would have minded if she had known I was doing it with Giovanni.”
Jack stiffened, and she smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, that he’s so old. But he’s still sexy. He makes it with everybody. Besides, it was kind of a thank-you for using me that first time.”
“You’ve only done it with him once?”
“Uh-huh.” She lifted her chin. “Did you know, I was the youngest one there today. Of all the girls, I had the least experience.”
He didn’t reply and after a moment, she drew her eyebrows together, studying him silently. “Does that…gross you out or anything?”
He thought of her doing it with Giovanni and wanted to retch. But he supposed he could understand. Giovanni was a powerful force in the fashion community; he could do a model many favors. So he lied. “Why should it?”
“Well, I heard something today. Can I ask you about it?” Jack had an idea what she had heard but told her to ask anyway. “I heard that you’re his son. Giovanni’s.”
“His bastard son. Yeah, it’s true.”
“Wow. I’ve never known one of those before. A bastard,” she said as if testing the sound on her tongue. “What’s it like?”
He shrugged nonchalantly as if he had never thought about it before. “I don’t know. It’s just the way it is.”
“It’s pretty cool.” She sat up and stretched, her breasts lifting with the movement. He became instantly erect. “Did you know that Kim got a nose job free for doing it with a plastic surgeon she met at an agency party? Sara’s decided she’s going to get some tits. I might get a boob job, too. What do you think?”
He thought he was going to pop off just looking at her. He reached up and cupped her breasts. “I think they’re perfect.”
“They’re too small.” She arched her back as he moved his hands. “Shooters are always saying so.”
Jack sat up and brought his mouth to them. She whimpered with pleasure. “They’re crazy,” he muttered, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking it. “I think they’re terrific.”
For long minutes, they didn’t speak. Jack continued to kiss and stroke and cup her breasts. He found loving her that way unbelievably satisfying, exciting. He couldn’t get enough of her.
He brought his mouth to hers. “I want to taste you everywhere. I want to touch you, to stroke you.” He caught her bottom lip and drew it into his mouth. “I want to make you come.”
She shuddered, and he pushed her backward gently, until she lay sprawled on the couch. He splayed his hands across her abdomen and lowered his head. Her belly quivered as he trailed his lips and tongue across her soft, warm flesh. “You taste so good, Gina. You’re so beautiful, so soft…”
She tangled her fingers in his hair. He touched her everywhere. He explored and learned, about a woman’s body and about what pleased this woman. She arched and moaned and squirmed. She tried to pull him to her, again and again, but each time he stopped her. He wanted to please her, but he also wanted to know, finally, how to please a woman.
He slid his hands between her thighs, moving them up until he found her center. Wet and almost unbearably hot, he sank into her.
“Can I taste you here?” Jack didn’t wait for her answer, but placed his mouth exactly where he longed for it to be. She gasped and lifted her hips off the couch in response; he tasted and tested again.
He grew bolder, his body tautened, as she whimpered and moaned, as she squirmed under his hands, to his kisses, his caresses. He couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t taste enough. He found every part of her body to be perfect, enchanting. He loved her every texture and scent, every taste, every sound she made.
She cried out and bucked up against his mouth, her hands twisted in his hair. He felt her throb and quiver, and he knew a sense of such overwhelming power. In that moment, she was his. He was the center of her universe. He had made her cry out with pleasure, only him.
His control slipped, and while she still shook with her release, he thrust into her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, and they rocked together until he exploded inside her.
Afterward, she stared at him in adoration and shock. “That’s never…I never…” She let the words trail off, looking embarrassed and near tears.
Jack threaded his fingers through her damp hair. “Didn’t you like it?”
She flushed. “I loved it.”
He leaned his forehead against hers and grinned. “So did I.”
For a long time after that, they didn’t speak. They lay on their sides, facing each other, Jack’s sweater pulled partially over them. The mantel clock ticked loudly in the otherwise quiet room.
Gina’s eyes were closed, her breathing soft and even. “Are you asleep?” he asked.
She opened her eyes. “No. Just thinking.”
“What about?”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was wondering, where did you learn to do, you know, all that?”
“I’ve seen and heard a lot of stuff. Mostly on location.” He grinned. “You’d be surprised what a kid can learn by keeping his eyes and ears open.”
She giggled. “I like surprises.”
She fell silent again, and Jack propped himself up on an elbow to gaze down at her. She arched her eyebrows. “What?”
“Just looking.”
“Oh.”
“Gina?” She met his eyes again. “Are you going to keep modeling?”
“For sure. After this semester, I’m quitting school. I’m already a year behind, and I can’t keep up.”
“School’s not my favorite thing, but my mother would have a fit if I even thought about dropping out.”
“Mine doesn’t care. This is my career, and I can only do it while I’m young.” She tilted her head, studying him. “What are you going to do when you get out of school? Go to college?”
He shook his head. “I’m going to be a fashion photographer.”
“Like your dad.”
“I don’t think of him that way,” Jack corrected grimly. “The only thing we have in common is blood. You’ve got to give a shit to be a father. Or a son. Besides,” he said, his voice tight with determination, “I’m going to be better than him.”
“Carlo’s going to be a fashion photographer, too. He told Sara.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to be better than both of them. You can bet on it.”
She looked up at him, her cheeks and eyes glowing. “I believe you will be.”
“Do you, Gina?” He smiled at her, pleased, feeling suddenly like the experienced one, the one in control.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I think you’re going to be able to do anything you put your mind to.”
He pressed his mouth to hers in a quick, hard kiss. “When did you say your mother was going to be home?”
Together they glanced at the wall clock. “Not for a while.”
“Great.” He curved his lips into a slow, satisfied smile. “As long as we’re here, what would you say about—”
He leaned close to her and whispered what he would like to do in her ear. Laughing, she drew him to her again.
Much later, Jack and Gina dressed in silence. He felt spent, energized, taut, and relaxed all at the same time. Gina walked him to the door, facing him when they reached it. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said softly, her cheeks bright with color.
He cupped her face, leaned down and kissed her. “Can I call you?”
She sighed. “Oh, yes.”
He opened the door and started through it. She caught his hand, stopping him. “Jack?”
“Hmm?”
“Tonight, I did it with you just because I…wanted to. It didn’t have anything to do with…anything else.” She clung to his hand. “And it’s never…been that way for me before. It’s never felt so…good.”
Satisfaction and pride swelled inside him. He brought their joined hands to his mouth. “Gina, can I ask you something? It’s important.”
She nodded, searching his serious expression. “Anything.”
“Don’t have sex with him. With Carlo. Okay?”
“Because he’s your brother?”
“Because I don’t like him. I don’t like him a lot.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “It’s really important to me, Gina. Can you promise?”
“I promise, Jack.” She smiled up at him. “I’d do anything for you.”
10
“Jack. It’s time to get up.”
Jack cracked open his eyes. His mother stood in his bedroom doorway, her expression troubled. His pulse began to thud in his head. She had found out about last night. But how? He had returned his friend’s car by the stroke of midnight, and had beaten his mother home by thirty minutes. He had heard her come in, had pretended to be deeply asleep when she had looked in on him.
But still, he could see that something was wrong.
“Morning,” he managed to say, his voice a rasp. He struggled into a sitting position. “What’s up?”
She crossed the room to his bed, then sat gingerly on its edge. “We need to talk about what went on yesterday.”
Images of him and Gina flew to his head, and his manhood stirred.
He swore silently and quickly shifted his gaze, afraid that if he looked her in the eye, she would read every one of his thoughts, that she would know.
“How are you feeling?” She laid her hand on his forehead. “You’re a little flushed.”
He jerked his head back, embarrassed. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“Mrs. Green told me you called. Early.” She drew her eyebrows together in concern. “You’re sure you’re okay? You feel a little warm.”
If his mother knew why he felt warm, if she could read his mind, she would have a heart attack.
He sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. “I wasn’t sick, Mom.”
“You weren’t?” She shook her head, confused. “Then why did you call Mrs. Gre—”
“I sneaked out.”
She drew a sharp, surprised breath. “You what?”
“I sneaked out. I had a date with Gina.”
“Gina, the model?” his mother asked faintly.
“I went to her house.” And fucked my brains out. It was the greatest night of my life. “To study with her,” he added, lacing his fingers together in his lap. Surely he could live with the small lie? After all, there were things a son could never tell his mother, even in an effort to be honest. “She invited me over when I was at the shoot yesterday.”
His mother stared at him a moment, obviously thrown off balance by his admission. “Why didn’t you ask me if you could go?”
“I started to, but you grounded me.”
“But you went, anyway.”
He hiked his chin up a fraction at the hint of both hurt and puzzlement in her voice. “Yes.”
She searched his expression. “And you’re not sorry?”
He thought of the night before and shook his head. How could he be sorry? Last night had been the most wonderful experience of his life. “I’m sorry I tricked you.”
“You’re grounded again. For a month.”
“I know. I understood the consequences last night.”
She stood and crossed to his bedroom window. For several moments, she stared out at the day, the bright sky marred by smog. “You could have gotten away with it. I didn’t know,” she said as she swiveled to look at him.
“Yeah.” He lowered his gaze to his hands, then lifted it to hers once more. “But a man stands up for his actions.”
“A man? Oh, Lord.” She brought a hand to her head, making a sound of dismay. “What am I going to do with you? I’m way out of my depth here.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Every kid grows up.”
She laughed and turned back to the window, the choked sound anything but amused. He saw that her fingers shook as she ran them along the window ledge.
“What’s wrong?”
She turned and met his eyes. “You’re only sixteen, that’s what’s wrong. Practically a baby, still. You’re my…” She shook her head and looked out the window again.
For a long time, she said nothing. Then she suddenly faced him once more. “For a long time, I’ve been thinking about making a change. And I… Last night, I came to a decision. I’m getting out of the business.”
Jack stared at her, confused. “What do you mean, getting out of the business?”
“Just what it sounds like. I’m not going to do fashion work anymore.” She crossed to the bed, and gazed solemnly down at him. “This is no life for you, Jack. Lord knows, I should have seen it a long time ago.”
“No life for me?” He shook his head, struggling to digest her words. “I love what we do.”
“We don’t do it, Jack.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I do. I’m a makeup artist, it’s how I make a living. You’re supposed to live like a kid. Like a regular teenager. You’re supposed to go to football games and dances. You’re supposed to have a steady girlfriend and go to the movies with your friends. You’re not supposed to be surrounded by adults all the time.”
“That’s such bullshit!”
“Jack!”
He threw back the covers and sprang out of bed. “Well, it is!” He flexed his fingers, his heart thundering. “Who says I’m supposed to live differently? Just because your childhood was different than mine, just because the kids at school’s lives are different than mine, doesn’t mean mine’s been wrong. Maybe they’re the ones whose lives are weird.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. You don’t see because you’re—”
“This has something to do with him, doesn’t it? After yesterday, he said something to you, didn’t he?” Jack glared at her, furious. “What say does he have in my life? You have an arrangement, remember? I’m yours and he doesn’t give a shit.”
“This has nothing to do with Giovanni. And don’t swear at me.”
“Then don’t do this, Mom.”
Wearily, Sallie brought a hand to her forehead. “I see I’ve made the right decision, only too late. I don’t know how I could have let this go on so long. Taking you out of school so often, away from your friends, from any semblance of a normal—”
“I don’t have any friends at school.”
“Because you’re not there enough.”
“No, because they bore me. I’ve been all over the world, a lot of those kids haven’t been farther than their grandmother’s house.”
“Jack, try to understand. I want what’s best for you. And this isn’t it. This anger you have isn’t it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about making this change for a long time. Since you were eight and Giovanni…” She shook her head again. “But I didn’t know what I could do. How I would support us. Now I know.”
She paused, as if giving him a chance to question her. He folded his arms across his chest and refused to look at her.
She made a sound of frustration and crossed once more to the window. “I’m going to open my own shop. Hair, makeup and make-overs. The kind of shop—”
“A beauty parlor?” he said, disbelieving. “Great, Mom. You’re going to go from working on the most beautiful women in the world to doing little old ladies with blue hair.”
She stiffened. “My shop is not going to cater to �little old ladies with blue hair.’ It’s going to cater to people of fashion. People from the industry, and people with the money to follow, and make, trends. The work we do is going to be trendsetting, it’s going to be fashion.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Besides, as you very well know, I don’t do hair.”
He didn’t reply, just glared stonily at her, and she went on. “The money will be better. Steadier. Won’t that be nice? After all, you might want to go to college someday. How would I afford that?”
“I don’t care about college. I’m going to be a fashion photographer. You know that.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“It’s not what you think.” He hiked up his chin. “It’s not because of Giovanni.”
“No?”
“No.” He squared his shoulders, determined. “I don’t want to be like him. I’m going to be better than him.”
She clasped her hands together and met his gaze evenly. “He’s financing the shop for me.”
“What?” Jack fisted his fingers, rage and impotence roiling inside him. Unable to stay still, he strode across the room, then back, stopping in front of his mother, shaking with fury. “I can’t believe that after everything, you would do this. I can’t believe you would get in bed with him again.”
She stared at him a moment, shocked silent. When she spoke, her voice quivered with both hurt and anger. “This is a good thing for me. For us. I’m getting too old to travel the circuit, and whether you realize it or not, you need a normal life. I’m grateful to Giovanni for this. He’s not doing it because he slept with me years ago… Lord knows, he’s slept with everybody. He’s doing it because he believes it will be a successful business venture. And because he believes in my abilities, as a makeup artist and a businesswoman. Something you obviously don’t.”
She stalked to the door, turning to face him once more when she reached it. “If you don’t see that, well, it’s too damn bad. Because it’s my life and my career, and I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”
“I do believe in you,” Jack retorted, flexing his fingers. “More than he does.”
“It’s not a competition, Jack.”
“No? Then why does it feel like one?”
Her expression softened. “That’s a good question, son. It’s one I suggest you think about.”
His eyes burned, and he lifted his chin again, stubbornly, defiantly. He cleared his throat. “When’s this…this thing going to happen?”
“I’m going to start working on it right away. The first thing I’ve got to do is find the right space. Will you help me?”
He let out his breath in an angry snort. “No way.”
“Fine. I would have liked to have you with me on this, but I can do it without you.”
“Go for it.” He refused to look at her. “Have a ball.”
“Do you want to know what I’m going to call it?”
“Not particularly.”
She didn’t take no for an answer but then, he hadn’t really expected her to. “The Image Shop. What do you think?”
“The Image Shop,” he repeated softly, liking the sound of it, hating that he did.
“Well?”
He swung toward her, and met her gaze evenly. A dozen different emotions barreled through him, not the least of which was frustration. “I think it sucks, Mom. I think this whole thing sucks.”
Book Three
11
Los Angeles, California
1984
Becky Lynn stood in the center of the biggest, busiest bus terminal she had ever seen, frozen to the spot in terror. She didn’t know which way to go or what to do next. People, strange-looking people of all colors and in all kinds of dress, wove their way around her. All with purpose, all seeming to have someone to meet or someplace to go. Many shot her angry glances for blocking the way, a few bumped into her as they passed, then continued on their way without a murmur of apology or regret.
She clutched her duffel bag to her chest, afraid someone might try to snatch it. A woman on the last bus had warned her of that possibility and to be careful.
Becky Lynn drew in a deep, fortifying breath. This wasn’t what she had expected but then, so far, nothing about her journey had been—from the one hundred and forty-five dollars the one-way ticket had cost her to the alternating fear and relief she had felt during the course of the two-day trip. With a shudder of apprehension, she wondered what other surprises awaited her.
Taking another deep breath, she started blindly forward, moving with the crowd. She couldn’t stand in one spot forever, no matter how reassuring it felt.
She caught sight of an information counter and angled toward it. She stopped in front of the counter and waited. The woman on the other side didn’t look up from her magazine. Becky Lynn cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”
The woman lifted her gaze. Her eyes widened a bit, as if in horror, then her expression melted back into one of jaded disinterest. “Yeah? Can I help you?”
“Could you please tell me how I get to…” Becky Lynn’s voice trailed off. Where did she want to go? She couldn’t point at the woman’s magazine, opened to a sunny ad and say, “How do I get there?”
“Can I help you?” the woman said again, impatiently.
“Hollywood,” Becky Lynn said. “How do I get to Hollywood?”
The woman narrowed her eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, and moved them over Becky Lynn. “Honey, you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman shook her head, as if in resignation. “Your best bet is a city bus.” She reached under the counter and produced a map and schedule. She slid it across to Becky Lynn, circling a place on the map with a red pencil. “Catch it here. It’s a dollar-ten, exact fare.”
“Thank you.” Becky Lynn scooped up the map. “Oh, and which way is the ladies’ room?”
Attention already shifted back to her magazine, the woman indicated the general direction without looking up. Becky Lynn followed and within moments stood before the bathroom mirror.
She gazed at her reflection, her stomach turning. No wonder the woman behind the counter had looked at her that way, no wonder people on the bus had averted their gaze from her. She looked awful. She looked like what she was, a runaway, a victim of violence.
She moved her gaze over her reflected image. After forty-eight hours on or between buses, her hair was snarled and ready for a scrubbing. Her jaw, swollen and a bluish green, stood out in stark contrast to her unnaturally pale skin. Her eyes were hollow and dark from sleeplessness, her clothes dirty and rumpled.
Her vision blurred, and she grabbed the edge of the sink, light-headed. Except for the half of a bologna sandwich and Oreo cookie that the woman riding beside her between Dallas and Los Angeles had given her, and the few things she’d gotten from vending machines along the route before that, she’d had nothing to eat since leaving Bend.
She sucked in a deep breath, pain mixing with hunger. She hurt so bad, the bruises on her face, the ones on her body, inside her body. She hadn’t wanted to eat, but had known if she didn’t, she would collapse.
Becky Lynn fished in her pocket for the small bottle of aspirin the same woman who had shared her food had given her. The woman had seen her grimace and shudder in pain, and had given her all that she had. Becky Lynn had been touched by her kindness.
Becky Lynn uncapped the bottle and spilled the contents onto her palm. Only two left. She would have to buy more, and soon. Even though they only cut the pain, she didn’t know what she would have done without them. The pain would have been unbearable.
She popped the tablets into her mouth, turned on the water and bent to catch some in her cupped palms. Her hands shook so badly it took three tries to get the water to her mouth, and the aspirins partially melted on her tongue. She gagged, her empty stomach clenching at the bitter taste.
A woman herded her two small children into the bathroom. She caught sight of Becky Lynn, grabbed her children by their collars and steered them away from her. As if Becky Lynn had some sort of disease, she thought. As if being near her would contaminate them. The older of the two children whispered something Becky Lynn couldn’t catch, and the mother hushed her.
Becky Lynn watched them hurry toward the row of stalls, tears stinging her eyes. It hurt, though she couldn’t blame the mother for protecting her children. Lord knew, she wished her own mother had tried to protect her.
She thought of her mother, of the weeping she had heard when she left the house. The tears welled up and she blinked against them. Her mother hadn’t been asleep. Her mother had known she was running away, and had let her daughter go.
Her tears dried. Leaving had been the right decision; she hadn’t had any other choice. Her mother had seen that as clearly as Becky Lynn had. That’s why she hadn’t stopped her.
Becky Lynn turned back to the sink and the running water. She washed her face. That done, she dug her comb, toothbrush and toothpaste out of her duffel. She brushed, combed, then fashioned her hair into a tidy braid, using a rubber band she found on the floor.
After using the facilities and making sure she had all her belongings, she headed back out into the busy terminal, then out to the street.
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