At Risk (17 page)

"Yes." It came out a whisper.

"It must have been horrible."

"It's history. No big deal." My voice sounded
convincing enough, and it was over and done with, but not in the
middle of the night. Not in my dreams. Annoyingly, I still dreamt
about it. Dreamt about him. And in those dreams he was disturbingly
real.

"You're strong," she said softly.

I snorted. If she only knew. There was
compassion in her eyes, I thought, and understanding. We were
standing close. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her against
me.

As I'd been ignoring Foxdale's policy of
non-fraternization with the boarders, a policy no one paid
attention to anyway, I said, "I know you get up early, but would
you like to go to dinner and the movies" . . . and bed . . .
"Thursday evening?"

She looked at my face, her dark eyes serious.
"Sure."

I kissed her on the lips and thought the
evening couldn't get any better.

We walked back outside to the party, or what
was left of it. The caterer's wagon had been locked up tight, and
many of the guests had gone home. As we crossed the grass, I heard
someone shouting above the music. His back was toward us, his
muscles rigid with tension, and he was flailing his arms. I groaned
when I saw his target.

Of all people, he had to be arguing with Mr.
Sanders, who was so anxious to get away from the guy, he was
practically squirming. His face was red from embarrassment or
anger. I couldn't tell which. It hadn't taken him long to replace
Steel, though I imagined the twenty-thousand dollar insurance claim
had helped considerably. A week after the theft, he'd purchased a
large blood-bay hunter with an ugly head and surly disposition. The
new horse didn't take well to mistakes or roughness from his rider
and was teaching Sanders a thing or two about finesse and tact,
having bucked him off whenever Sander's aids weren't precise.

I asked Rachel to stay where she was, then
walked down the alleyway between the barn and canopy. The
troublemaker was waving a beer bottle in the air and shouting
increasingly vulgar obscenities. Sanders backed up, reminding me of
a horse ready to bolt.

I stepped closer. "Excuse me."

The troublemaker wheeled around and lurched
sideways. "What the fuck do you want?"

I was surprised because I knew him. He drove
Harrison's hay truck more often than not, and he hadn't been
invited to the party. I thought about the bale he'd slammed into my
back and wondered what his problem was.

"You'll have to leave," I said.

In a low, menacing voice, he said, "Make me,
you little boot-licking, cock-sucking, creepy bastard."

Conscious of the attention we were
attracting, I stood very still, knowing full well that my lack of
reaction was pissing him off.

I should have seen it coming . . . stupid,
really, that I didn't. I had started to turn, to make sure Rachel
hadn't followed, when he punched me in the face. I crashed backward
against the barn siding. I was still scrambling to get my footing
when he swung the beer bottle at my head.

I ducked it . . . just. The bottle exploded
against the ridged metal siding, inches above my head.

He now held in his hand a jagged,
lethal-looking piece of glass which he held close to my face.

I didn't move . . . didn't dare.

He couldn't be stupid enough to use it in
front of all these people, could he? But he was drunk. "Drunk and
disorderly" came to mind as I looked in his eyes. Nothing
reassuring there. Nothing at all.

I couldn't think of a way out. I was afraid
to move. Was sure he'd use it if I did.

"Hey!" a loud voice boomed. Marty.

The driver looked at Marty. I didn't. When
his gaze was off me, I hit his arm hard. The glass flew out of his
hand and bounced across the grass.

He spun back around. His eyes had the
glazed-over look of the truly inebriated and were wild with hate.
An ugly vein that ran across his temple had become distended and
throbbed visibly. I rammed my fist into his ear with a fierceness
that surprised me. He yelped and cupped his hand over his ear.

I tackled him, and we crashed into a picnic
table. He hit the wooden edge hard. The momentum carried us across
the top, scattering paper plates and half-filled cups.

When we landed on the grass, I got to my
knees fast and rolled him onto his back. I straddled him and
slammed my fist into his face. My knuckles connected solidly with
his nose, and I felt the cartilage give. I got in two more swings
before he got his arms up and covered his face. I punched him in
the solar plexus, then swung my arm back for another go.

Someone grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my
feet. I whirled around.

"Jesus Christ," Marty yelled. "What's the
matter with you?" He glanced down at the driver, who was rolling
over onto his hands and knees, and pulled me across the grass.
"What'n the hell do you think you're doin'?"

"Get off me." I yanked my arm free and spun
around. The driver was staggering between a table and half-empty
tub of soda on his way to the parking lot. I started after him.

Marty latched onto my arm. "Give it a rest
for crying out loud."

"Let go!" I pulled against him, but his grip
was like steel. "Let go of me, Marty."

"Forget him."

"Fuck you." I slammed my hands into Marty's
chest and pushed him backward, but he held on like a leech. I
looked after the driver and saw that he'd already disappeared
around the corner of the indoor.

Marty moved around in front of me and blocked
my view. "Steve, you're making a mistake."

"No, Marty." I glared at him and said through
clenched teeth, "You're making a mistake if you don't fucking turn
me loose."

I looked down at his fingers wrapped around
my arm, at my hands clenched into fists, at the blood smeared
across my jacket.

"Okay, Steve." He released my arm. "It's your
call." His voice was so calm, it took me by surprise. "Just don't
be stupid."

I glanced around. The remaining guests were
clustered in little groups, whispering to each other with sidelong
glances, trying not to be too obvious. I sat down at a nearby
picnic table, braced my hands on my knees, and watched blood drip
from my nose and splatter onto the grass between my feet. I closed
my eyes and felt dizzy.

"Come on, Steve." Marty slipped his hand
under my arm. "Let's go into the lounge. Okay, buddy?"

I yanked my arm free. "I can stand up,
dammit,"

It wasn't until I was on my feet that I
noticed Rachel. She was hovering behind Marty with her arms wrapped
around herself, looking like she didn't know what to do.

She walked over to me. "Are you all
right?"

I nodded.

* * *

It took forever for my nose to stop bleeding.
We had gone into the lounge, which thankfully was deserted. Once
I'd successfully squelched the flow, I tossed the wad of paper
towels in the trash and took off my jacket. Shards of brown glass
cascaded to the ground.

Marty reached down and picked up a fragment.
"What the hell?"

"It's from the beer bottle." I ran my fingers
through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck. "My hair's wet,
too."

"What beer bottle?"

I grabbed hold of my shirt collar and peeled
the wet fabric off my back. I smelled like a brewery, but at least
the glass hadn't worked its way into my shirt. "The bottle
Harrison's driver had."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's what he had in his hand when you
yelled at him."

"It didn't look like a beer bottle."

"Guess not. Not after he'd tried to smash my
head in with it, it didn't. He missed and broke it on the side of
the barn. Then, I suppose he figured he might as well redecorate my
face while he was at it."

"Son of a bitch. If I'd known, I'd've laid
into him, too." Marty walked across the room and dropped the piece
of glass into the trash. He opened the freezer door. "Son of a
bitch," he said again, more to himself than anyone else.

I sat down and wondered how many other people
had only seen the tail end of the fight and thought I had gone
stark-raving mad. Marty returned and unceremoniously plopped some
ice, wrapped in a towel, on my face.

"Thanks." I held the bundle on the bridge of
my nose and tilted my head so I could look at him. "And, Marty . .
. I owe you an apology."

"Damn right you do," he said. "Pull that shit
again, and I'll . . . I'll have your job."

I grinned at him. "I thought you didn't want
my job?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot." He crossed his arms
over his chest. "So, what started the whole fucking thing?" When I
finished telling him, he chuckled. "Shit, Steve, you should of
given him a medal for bothering Mr. Hotshot Sanders. That asshole
sure could use some puttin' in his place."

I glanced at Rachel.

Marty continued. "Come to think of it, I saw
them talkin' earlier, thicker 'n flies on shit, and Sanders didn't
look too happy then, either."

"Well, it makes sense they'd know each other.
Sanders used to board at Harrison's farm." I readjusted the ice.
"Wonder what's up."

"Who the hell cares?"

I scrunched down into the cushions and
concentrated on balancing the ice while keeping the pressure as
light as possible. Several minutes later, Marty was still pacing
around the room. Angie was sprawled on the adjacent sofa and looked
bored, and Rachel was watching me with a worried expression on her
pretty face.

I tried a smile. "Well," I said, "so much for
an uneventful party."

Rachel shifted on the cushions. "I thought he
was going to kill you."

"No. He wasn't that stupid," I said,
convincing myself as much as her. "Anyway . . . everything worked
out okay."

She frowned. "Your perception of okay's kind
of skewed."

"Yeah." Marty plopped down next to Angie.
"Just wait 'til Monday morning."

"Monday morning?" Rachel looked from Marty to
me.

"Yeah," Marty said. "When Mrs. Hill finds out
about our wild man here."

I listened to the grin in his voice. "What
was I supposed to do?" I said. "Just stand there and let him cut
me?"

"No, Steve. But you didn't have to pound him
into the ground, either. Not that I blame you. Hell, I might of
killed the bastard."

I slid my spine deeper into the sofa and
rested my head on the cushions.

Marty said, "Is the ice making any
difference?"

"Yeah. Now, not only does my nose hurt, it's
cold."

He snorted.

After a minute or two, I shifted the ice
pack. Marty had his arm draped across Angie's shoulders. Their
heads were turned toward each other, their voices indistinct
murmurs. Rachel's arms were stiff at her sides, and her shoulders
looked tense. I took the ice off my face, sat up straighter, and
put my hand on hers.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"Sorry that this whole stupid thing
happened." I squeezed her hand.

"Well, we're outta here." Marty levered
himself off the sofa. "You gonna be all right, Steve?"

"Yep."

"Good. See you Monday, if you still got a
job."

I groaned. "And, Marty . . . thanks."

He slid his arm around Angie's waist and
grinned wickedly. "We'll discuss my fee later."

I watched them head toward the door and
decided he looked fit enough to drive. The evening's events had no
doubt gone a long way toward sobering him up. "Hey . . . drive
carefully," I yelled over my shoulder.

"Yes, Mom," he said with mock disgust.

After the door had swung shut, I thanked
Rachel.

"For what?"

I shrugged. "For being here."

"You're welcome. It's been . . .
different."

She was sitting close. The place was
deserted, and given any other circumstance, it would have been
perfect.

"Are you really going to get in trouble?"

"I hope not."

"Can I get you something?" She rose to her
feet and scanned the lounge. "Don't they have a first aid kit
around here? Some aspirin would help."

I started to get up.

Rachel put her hands on my shoulders. "Stay
put. I'll get it."

She looked so serious, it was all I could do
not to grab hold of her and pull her into my lap. I smiled at her
instead and sank back into the cushions. "In the office. On the
table along the back wall."

While she went on her search, I closed my
eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing in my head. Listening to her
rummage around in the office, I thought about the following
morning, when I was expected to come in early and clean up after
the party. I didn't feel like it, and I doubted six hours were
going to change my outlook any. I checked my watch.
Eleven-forty-five. Make that five hours. When I opened my eyes,
Rachel was standing in front of me with three Tylenol caplets in
one hand, a Coke in the other, and a worried expression on her
pretty face. A grin from me was met with a frown, and I found I was
liking her more and more.

"Three?" I said.

"It won't hurt, and you look like you could
use it." She watched me swallow the pills, then sat down beside me.
"Do you think your nose is broken?"

"Probably not, but if it is, there's nothing
much to be done about it. The last time I . . . eh." Damn, why'd I
have to bring that up? I sure as hell didn't want to talk about
that. "It probably isn't."

"Um." Rachel swiveled around to face me, much
as Elsa had done, minus the sexual come-on. She reached over and
lifted the ice pack off the armrest. "Here, you should keep this on
your nose. Somehow, I figure when you get home you won't
bother."

Rachel scooted around so that she was on her
knees beside me on the sofa. She braced her left hand on the
backrest next to my shoulder and held the ice on my nose. Any
closer and she'd be in my lap. I wanted to take the damn ice off my
face and wrap my arms around her, but my stomach had other plans.
My gut was churning like a cement mixer, and I thought I'd probably
swallowed more blood than I'd realized.