Part 30 (1/2)
Caught In A Maelstrom Of jealousy and anger. That's me.
It's a static in my brain. A crimson lens I'm looking through, and it all makes my head pound like meat getting tenderized with a mallet.
Why did the b.i.t.c.h lead me on?
I watch her come out of her house, walk quickly to her car. Does she suspect I'm here? If she drives by, she'll know for sure. But she turns the other way, taking the back road toward town. To her. She's going to her, says a voice. Follow her. I don't look for the source.
No matter how many times I've searched, I can't seem to find him. But for the past week or two, he's been talking a lot. I've learned to do what he says. Or my head hurts even worse. Cara's little red Saab is easy to spot. I maintain a decent distance so she doesn't see my truck in her mirrors.
Yeah, but don't let her get too far ahead, or you'll lose her.
I turn up the radio. That won't work, idiot. I'm louder than the music and you know it.
He was practically shouting that time. I turn the radio back down.
Open the window. A sharp stab of air attacks my cheek, but it feels good. Great. My skin is fevered.
”You have to stop distracting me,” I tell the voice. Some people would say it's crazy, talking to someone you can't see.
But mostly he's decent company.
Cara Weaves Through an asphalt maze. Right.
Left. Left. Into an old southwest Reno neighborhood, where houses are brick and river rock, with covered porches and splintered sidewalks. She drives slowly, as if looking for an address.
Maybe I'm wrong. Surely she knows where the blue-haired girl lives. You're not wrong.
She pulls against the curb a couple of blocks ahead.
I find a place to park, watch her go to the door of a small house. Some man answers, steps back to let her in. A man?
She's here to see a man? No.
It's the girl's father.Duh.
Maybe the voice is the voice of reason. Oh yes, I'm reasonable.
I sit, waiting. Not sure what for.
Hope the people who live in the house I'm parked in front of don't think I'm scoping out the place. Last thing I need in my life are cops. After a little while, blue-haired-girl's front door opens again. The man comes out, lugging a set of golf clubs. He carries them to an aged SUV parked in the circular driveway. And off he goes.
Golf, huh? He'll be gone for a while. Think he knows what the girls will be up to?
What Will The Girls Be Up To?
I really, really want to know.
Guesswork and imagination are so unfulfilling. Frustrating.
Come on. You know what girls do. You've seen it in magazines.
Movies, too. Remember that night with Cara. It was a girl-on-girl scene that got her all turned on.
Hey, maybe it's your fault. Maybe you helped flip her gay. How ironic.
No. Not me, and not the movie.
Gayness comes built in, right?
That's what everyone says.
Yeah, everyone who's gay. You don't really believe that, right?
”G.o.dd.a.m.n! Would you just shut the f.u.c.k up? I can't think straight.”
Nope. All you can think is h.o.m.o.
G.o.d. Cara might be in there, with that girl, doing ... what?
Are they naked right now?
Playing naked lez games?
No way to know for sure.
Ever heard of windows? You know, those gla.s.s things you can look through to see what's on the other side? Just be careful in case Mrs. Golf Dude is at home. And you might not want to let any of the neighbors see.
Windows Are Made To Look Through Other than the cars zipping by faster than they probably should, the street seems quiet enough.
I get out of the truck, don't lock the doors, in case I need to leave in a hurry. What is that noise?
High power lines? My ears don't like the thrumming.
I try to look like I belong on this sidewalk, like I have a legit purpose for walking along it.
But the winter-bared trees seem to be the only things that know I'm here. Not too worried about fooling them.
I slow as I approach the house.
Glance around, trying not to look like I'm glancing around.
The front door is flanked by windows, shades drawn.
Shouldn't peek in the front windows, anyway. I veer into the unfenced side yard.
It's screened from the neighbors'