Part 6 (1/2)
His voice doubled and deepened in mid-croon, like a man teaching a dog to sing. The thought tickled him royally.
He glanced back at the interior of the car, the pile of clothes laying there. His belt buckle dangled gleaming on the seat: a stainless-steel rectangle, big blocky letters spelling V . . . I . . . C . . .
That's my name, he thought, wildly amused at the thought of his totality being so neatly contained in a word. Vic smiled as he went around to the back of the car, chuckled as he reached into the trunk, laughed out loud as he stepped away.
By the time he reached the tree line his jaws had elongated, the better to accommodate the depth of his mirth, and his grin had blossomed with many, many sharp and s.h.i.+ny teeth.
Vic ran his tongue across them, conspicuously pleased, as the moon conferred her blessing, racing through the midnight sky.
It was all he could do to resist the urge to bay.
8.
The weirdness didn't hit him until they were almost out the door. But when it came, it came down hard.
One second, Syd was escorting this devastating woman to his car. The next thing he knew, there was an icy tapeworm of dread unfurling in his gut.
It started when Nora informed him that they needed a bottle for the road. Not at all an unreasonable request, but there was one tiny problem. In the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the only place you could legally buy takeout wine or booze by the bottle was a State Store. These altogether joyless inst.i.tutions were, of course, a public service of the Liquor Control Board: the same bunch of spoilsports who shut down bars for serving drinks to minors. This helped explain why shopping there felt so much like filing with the I.R.S.
Among their many customer-pleasing qualities, State Stores promptly shut down by nine, even on Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights. Which, he emphasized, made it kinda tricky for them to pick up a fifth of Southern Comfort on the way back from the bar.
This, however, was not the answer Nora wanted to hear. And his a.s.surance that he had half a case of Keystones in the fridge did nothing to a.s.suage her concern. They needed hard liquor, she insisted. They needed Comfort. Simple as that.
Syd considered the problem logistically for a minute. Breaking into a State Store wasn't such a hot idea, though they both agreed it would probably be fun. Fortunately, they were at a bar; and though bars were only allowed to sell carry-out beer in the state of Pennsylvania, there was always a chance that the rules might be bent, this being kind of a special occasion and all. Chameleon's usually had plenty of backstock, and Nora seemed to have plenty of cash on hand. Syd had neither, but said he would be happy to play liaison, see what he could do. It was good, at such times, to have friends in high places.
So Syd asked Jules, and Jules said sure, which meant that everything was fine and dandy. Right up until the point that they arranged to meet around back for the actual handoff.
Nora didn't like that idea at all. She said she didn't see the point; and Syd was surprised to see that the notion actually seemed to make her nervous.
Jules explained that this wasn't the kind of transaction you did in full view of the general public. Not only would everyone start sidling up and begging him to slip them bottles of Cuervo on the sly, but you never knew where those fun-loving guys from the L.C.B. might be lurking: they looked so much like real humans sometimes, it was almost frightening.
So rather than risk jeopardizing the club's license, not to mention his own livelihood, Jules would just go down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, grab a bottle off the rack, pop it in a paper bag, and meet them in five minutes by the rear kitchen entrance. They could just drive by the back of the building on their way out of Dodge. No muss, no fuss.
That seemed simple enough-to Syd, anyway-but that was when Nora started getting a little twitchy. She just wouldn't let it go. She asked Jules why he couldn't just hand them the paper bag here. He said that, well, technically, he could; it would just be a lot cooler the other way. She said that she didn't understand what the big deal was, if it was in a closed-up grocery bag. He could be handing over a bunch of clothes, or a handful of sandwiches. He could be handing over anything.
By this point, thirsty customers were starting to stack up around them. Jules took a deep breath and looked at Syd. Syd picked up his cue at that point, saying yeah, man, we understand your position, thanks a lot, it's not a problem. Then he turned to Nora and told her not to worry. He would get it.
That was when Nora stared him dead in the eye and said, ”I can't believe you guys are such a couple of chickens.h.i.+ts.”
And the thing was, it wasn't just the words. It was entirely the way that she said them. These were not words that were intended to tease, or josh, or otherwise cheerfully cajole; they drew blood, and had been whipped out for precisely that reason. The quiet ferocity of it stunned him. It wasn't just uncalled-for; it was G.o.ddam spooky.
That was when the tapeworm first began to uncoil.
Oh f.u.c.k, Syd thought, looking from Nora to Jules and back again. Jules was the most level-headed person Syd had ever met-the man had trained himself to deflect almost anything-but it was impossible to miss the flinch that rode the moment of impact on this one. It was, of course, because he had not been expecting it. The s.h.i.+ft from yellow to full red alert had gone down in the s.p.a.ce of a second; there just wasn't enough time to get the s.h.i.+elds up.
Syd knew exactly how he felt. In a word: bushwhacked. But when he looked back at Nora, the one thing he saw no trace of was sympathy. What he saw was smug self-righteousness, a defiance totally unmitigated by apology. What he also saw was someone who was starting to show the effects of all those double shots. One look in those eyes and it was definitely time to look back at Jules again.
When you knew someone really well, it was amazing how precisely you could read the fine print of their faces. What X amount of raised eyebrow means, in an otherwise impa.s.sive countenance. Syd knew that Jules's expression could be broadly interpreted to mean either this woman is an a.s.shole or your call, man. It's up to you.
But the most literal interpretation would have to be are you sure that you know what you're doing?
And the answer to that was: no, he wasn't. All of a sudden, he wasn't sure at all. He was drunk, too-there was no two ways about it-and up until about a minute ago, he'd been well on his way to falling for this woman. But he'd been around enough mean drunks in his day to develop a pointed aversion response. It was, at the least, a major turnoff; at worst, a deal-breaker. And it p.i.s.sed him off besides.
When he looked back at Nora, it must have been in his eyes, because her own eyes flared over a nasty little smile. It was the kind of smile you only see on people who adore a bloodbath. ”Let me know what you decide,” Jules said, then went off to tend his clientele. Which left Syd and Nora alone together, locked in a war of the wills.
”You want to tell me what this is about?” he inquired.
Her eyes squinted suspiciously. ”You want to tell me what you mean?”
”Aw, c'mon, Nora. Don't be coy with me. You're the last person in the world I wanna fight with right now.” He looked at her as he spoke. ”We were having so much fun . . .” He let the words trail off and smiled a little, ruefully, because it was so utterly true.
Her features softened momentarily, though her eyes stayed flint-hard. ”Maybe we still are having fun,” she said.
”Yeah, well.” Syd dropped the eyeball war for a moment, sighed long and deep, brought his gaze back to hers. ”I gotta admit, darlin': it kinda rains on my parade a little when I ask a friend for a favor . . .”
”Ah.” The hackles were back up, as quick as they'd fallen.
”. . . and he winds up getting kinda p.i.s.sed-on for it,” Syd continued. He could feel himself step over the line of romantic propriety and instantly regretted the inelegance of the phrase.
”Ooh, baby!” she said, and her eyes were like fireb.a.l.l.s of raging emerald glee. ”Believe me: you haven't seen me take a p.i.s.s on someone yet. When I do, you'll know it.”
”Oh.” Snide. ”Well, that sounds promising . . .”
”You don't seem to know what's going on here,” she cut in, wild and fiercely grinning. ”I don't think you even know what you're made of. You're a pretty cool guy, Syd. But you're kind of a d.i.n.k, if you know what I'm saying.”
The words stung. ”No, I don't. What the h.e.l.l are you saying?”
”What I'm saying,” and for this she leaned in close, ”is that I don't f.u.c.k domesticated animals. I eat them.”
He laughed. So did she. She leaned in, until her nose was nuzzling up against his ear. ”And I think you should know what you're rubbing up against,” she murmured, ”'cause if you haven't figured out by now that there's an element of risk involved here . . . then, baby, you'd better wake up, 'cause you're in for an awful shock.”
She pulled back, hovered inches from his face, eyes blazing, imperious. It was a withering look, to be sure. And it probably would have shriveled ninety-nine percent of the men she met. But the combination of liquor, l.u.s.t, and just plain stubbornness had ignited something belligerent in Syd. He met her stare head-on, faced her down.
”So what the f.u.c.k,” he said flatly, ”has that got to do with whether I score you a bottle out the back door or over the counter? Can you explain that to me, please?”
And because he was staring into her eyes-and because he was doing it so intently-he could see the fear resurface, flicker across them before she had a chance to raise the screens. It sent up an urgent warning flag, its double-edged message exceedingly clear. She is not about to go out back. And she is not about to tell me why.
It was the moment of truth and decision.
And that was when she kissed him.
And once again, he found himself sucked in and swallowed, drowned and intoxicated by her presence. The feel of her flesh. The taste of her lips. The unmistakable heat of her pa.s.sion. There was something so utterly real about her-so fundamental and pure-that it made him question every objection he posed, made him doubt every appeal to caution.