Sticks and Stones (15 page)

He didn’t see her – the darkness and Danny hid her. He might recognize her, she thought, though she expected he wouldn’t care. This bartender wouldn’t save her from the man’s not-so-tender mercies. Probably why he always came back.

He was hunting.

Danny swiped his fingers through the condensation under his bottle, water drops settling in the cigarette burns on the table as the waitress sauntered past, putting an extra sway into her step and a fetching grin on her face. The man’s eyes at the bar followed her, but he turned away. Too risky, likely. Maybe he knew her. Maybe she knew him and would never let him get close.

It might be obvious if a waitress went missing. Only a matter of time before she was linked back to the bar, back to him and his rings and the scars on his hands and nail-scuffs marking up his arms. But not soon enough.

Can
I do this?
Sandra asked.
Can I?

Danny shifted beside her, restlessly following the waitress with his eyes. Then his beer was gone and Sandra wondered how much of a push he’d need, if he’d be suspicious, not want to leave her alone… Daniel clapped a hand onto her shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving his jacket behind and heading for the back hall, bathroom and backdoor all close together and she wondered if he’d lie when he returned, say he’d been in one when he’d actually been out the other.

The waitress took a minute to follow.

Sandra gathered up Daniel’s jacket and moved toward the bar. She might have ten minutes, fifteen at the most. The stool creaked beneath her, air heavy, and she would’ve shivered if her limbs weren’t so tight. Her spine hurt, jaw and face. His middle ring had a design on it – a low etch of curves that she couldn’t quite make out. She hadn’t noticed last time; hadn’t wanted to.

Would she be okay if he touched her?

“Hey,” she said.

His eyes slid over, the slow curl of his grin made her sick. He was handsome. He looked like the boy next door and he felt absolutely awful and those girls must’ve had absolutely no idea.

“I know you.”

Sandra tried to look confused, like she didn’t remember, and his eyes slid down to the jacket, knew it was too big to be hers. “Brother,” she said, and he nodded, bringing his beer closer and raising a brow.

Sandra shook her head.

“I remember now. You don’t drink.” There was something challenging in his tone, almost a sneer and Sandra bit her tongue to stop from getting up and walking away. “I’m surprised you sat down.”

“Yeah, well, you were persistent. Maybe I’ve decided another shot can’t hurt.”

He grinned and it was so charming Sandra wanted to slap it off his face. “Huh.” He brought his drink up again. “Can I get you anything?”

I bet you love them
drunk
.
They can’t fight back when they’re that
way, can they?

“You don’t like me,” he said, giving a surprised laugh. “Why are you here?”

“Did you like me, the night you were trying to pick me up in the pub?”

That grin twisted back. “I saw you take up with that young guy – leave with him. What are you doing here, with me, when you could be laying somewhere with him? He not good enough for you?”

“You’re really trying to burn all your bridges, aren’t you?”

He laughed. Sandra wanted to walk away. Five minutes had passed and she wasn’t sure when Danny would be back.

“Well, hell, if you’ve stayed around…” he shrugged, offered his hand. “Roger.”
Trent, Arthur, Stuart
flashed across her mind when she took the offered palm, fingers too firm and too long on hers. The rings were cold and felt wet with blood, felt full of teeth and glass.

“Sarah,” she said, because that was close enough and she just wanted his hand off of hers.

“Sarah,” he repeated, and she had to force a smile. “Yeah,” he laughed, “you don’t like me.”

“Who said I had to like you?”

He drew the bottle close with two fingers, took a slow drink, the smile never fading. “You’re screwed up, lady.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I bet you like it that way.” He sputtered a little, coughed, turned back around to stare at her. Sandra raised a brow, hoped it made her look alluring, challenging, rather than stupid.

His laugh was real this time, more honest, and just as vicious. He ran a thumb over his rings, looked her up and down and inched just that bit closer. “Maybe I do.”

A fake-pleased sound and Sandra’s gaze slipped sideways, Danny not back yet and slipped her leg off the stool, nudge of knee and thigh. The so-called Roger smiled wide, tipped the rest of his beer back, and rested one hand on her leg when he was done. The touch spread out like oil, greasy and cold, dripping through the fabric and into her skin.

“You’re a fucking tease,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, a grating edge to his voice that made her almost jerk away, a trembling surge of adrenaline that made her want to rabbit and run.

She forced her eyes up, tilted her head, showed some neck.
C’mon
, she wanted to say.
C’mon
.
C’mon
. What was it going to take?

“Where’s your brother now?” he checked, just enough force to convince any other girl he was worried about getting hit, afraid of some tomcat coming up to defend his little sis’ honor.

But a brother couldn’t sketch his face if he never saw him leave.

“Out back. Getting lucky.” A closer lean and, “Like you could be. What d’you say?”

He stilled, tilted his head to match hers, too close and too closed off. “You sure about that?”

“Hell, of course not. But I’m offering anyway.”

“Got somewhere to go?”

“Sure.” Sandra smiled, pulled back, and waited for not-Roger to finish his beer, stand up and offer his hand. She took it, made it look like she wanted to, and grabbed Danny’s jacket.

He’d miss her first. And she didn’t think he’d care about his jacket’s absence if he didn’t even care about hers.

“You’re something else, Sarah,” so-called Roger said, on the way out the bar, and she just tugged her hand from his, using the excuse to catch the swing of the door before the wood grazed her shoulder.

Chapter Fifteen

He had
a car.

“There’s this motel. On the corner.” Sandra flicked her hair back, tucked it in behind her ear.

Not-named-Roger clenched his keys, made the metal rattle and Sandra could already feel the bite, feel the rip and the drip as they crashed into skin and teeth. “What? You asking me to pay?” The anger was dangerously close, and she quickly shook her head, pretending to be mortified and angry right back.

“Just don’t want to take you home. I want to fuck,” she forced out the word, “not invite you to breakfast.”

The keys jingled again, a threatening clash, and then disappeared back into his pocket.

Those girls
must’ve been so dumb
.

“Fine then,” he said, little nod and smile back, the one that poked not-so-nice fun. “How could I resist?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” She was just glad she didn’t have to pretend to be kind.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and fell into step beside her. Even his footsteps were heavy, like he was dragging the whole world down.

Wasn’t he
worried she’d scream?
She wasn’t drunk or dumb. He just thought she was easy and had to know she could scream and
scream
.

“You’re more forward than anyone I’ve met in a while,” he said.

Sandra glanced at him, hummed, wondered if he had a point.

“I like it.”

“I bet you like sex more.”

There was that laugh again and, god, it just made her skin crawl. “That, too,” he said. But he liked hurting people much more than that. It was a wonder his eyes weren’t completely onyx-black like his soul.

“You get a room here often?” fake-Roger asked, and Sandra rolled her eyes.

“I’m not a slut.”

He snorted, like he didn’t believe her, and Sandra quickly clenched her teeth. Antagonizing the psychopath probably wasn’t the best way to go about things.

She almost wished she had her gun. Even if she already knew all his moves.

But she had her knife.

They were almost at the edge of the lot when a large hand grabbed Sandra’s shoulder and jerked her around. Roger stopped, stance stiff like he was ready to swing, not nearly loose enough to have been taught how to do it properly.

She had to wonder if Roger and Danny recognized each other from the bar. They’d both been there multiple times.

“What’s going on?” Daniel’s eyes flickering to the motel and back, between her and him and,
damn it
, Danny must have seen them leave from the alley, must’ve followed. Now not-Roger was going to walk; Sandra could see the panic in his eyes. Everything was becoming too complicated. He was no longer in control. As it was, Roger turned into the shadows, face all blues and indescribable shapes, unrecognizable in case she did turn up dead. She hoped it had been enough. She was easy and didn’t like him and he didn’t like her. She bet he just itched to get his fingers around her stupid little throat.

“Why don’t you get a room,” she said to Roger, and Danny’s fingers bit in deep.

“Just a brother, huh?” Roger reiterated, like he didn’t believe it, and Danny’s face went harsh.

“Just a brother. Go get a room.” Sandra said.

Finally Roger turned away, and Daniel waited until he was gone before pushing her close to the building, almost up into the wall, hissing down into her face. “What the hell are you doing?”

Sandra didn’t think he deserved an answer.

“You’re taking him here?” Danny hissed. “And what – you’re going to let him fuck you in some dirty motel, listening to men and their cheap dates through the walls?”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

He shook her, her back pressed flat to the wall. “What are you
doing?
”

Tilting her head, she was glad to have his jacket in her arms, glad it concealed the press of the knife in her pocket, made him feel not so real against her. “You keep acting like you have a say. Why’d you follow me, Danny? Are you gonna watch
me
as I fuck someone?”

He drew back. Then, throat working, he said, “He’s bad news.”

“Well,
yeah
. That still doesn’t explain why you followed.”

Danny looked away, fingers dragging up into his jean pockets. She felt cold without him there, felt scared that he would leave and absolutely terrified that he wouldn’t.

“I don’t say anything about your girls, Daniel. I don’t harp about the waitresses and back alleys and late night returns. Hell, I haven’t even said a thing about that girl you fucked against the house wall while I watched. Which was a pretty awful goddamned thing for you to do.”

This time there was a definite flinch. “Sandra, I—”

“I’m not stupid, Daniel,” her voice was full of venom and she watched it take root in his pale skin, watched it push him a little further. “I know where you and Jack go at night, what you go off to do. I have the right to do the same.”

His eyes caught hers, held fast. “Are you doing this because we—”

“Don’t get a big head now.” Her grin was cutting. And she didn’t mind one bit. “This has
nothing
to do with you.” And maybe that made it worse, because his jaw looked about ready to crack. “I don’t get a say about the girls you take … and you certainly don’t get a say about mine.”

“San…”

“I’m here for me. I
want
this.” And, oh, that lie came easy.

He breathed deep, looked like he wanted to drag her away but didn’t dare. “This isn’t you,” he whispered.

“How would you know that?”

The silence lasted so long that she was sorely tempted to walk away. But Danny looked so tortured. Somewhere, deep down, Sandra felt glad, absolutely ecstatic, that he knew how it felt. But an even stronger part felt horrible, because she knew she’d made him give in and he was going to walk away and she was going to go into that room and shove her knife in between that cold-hearted bastard’s ribs.

She let her hand fall onto his shoulder. “It’s okay, Danny. I know what I’m doing.”

His sigh rattled the air. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” One last lingering look, and she wanted to say,
he’s waiting for me
, but Danny had already turned away, onto the sidewalk and down the street. She wanted to call him back, give him the knife or let him use his own, hidden and well-used in his right boot, its handle grooved and blade sharp-smooth. But she’d promised Lem. So Sandra turned away and followed the wall of the motel to the corner.

Fake-Roger had the door of their room open, was leaning against the frame, only the light from the parking lot illuminating his face, shadows at his back as his hand dangled down low beside his leg. He straightened when he saw her, eyes flickering all over the place as he tried to spot Danny. Or anyone, maybe. The motel looked vacant, only one other car at the far end, windows lit behind sun-bleached curtains.

She could imagine him hiding his face, pitching his voice deep and different as he paid for the room and accepted the key.

He still wanted to kill her.

God, he was
stupid
.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said when she was close enough. She forced herself to take those last few feet, crowd right up against him until he stepped back, pushing him into the dark and letting her smile fade right along with it.

She closed the door.

Danny’s jacket fell to the floor. The only light came from the window, faded and brittle through the crack in the curtains. Roger’s face was a mask of blues and purples, faint highlights on his cheeks and nose. His eyes gleamed dark, a white glare around his pupils that followed her, hid his thoughts and drew attention away from his knuckles and hands.

She didn’t think he ever got far with the women.

The dark would hide the reach of her hand, the blade she’d bring out and push forward and… Sandra trembled – felt cold.

“Come on,” Roger murmured, hand outstretched, and Sandra stepped into him, kept her one arm at her side, let his fingers wrap tight around her closest wrist.

And Roger was Lewis and David and John. He was Kenneth and Mathew and Mike and he introduced himself to Heather and made her laugh. He took Katherine home and made her feel special. He took Alice outside and punched her in the gut, cracked her ribs and strangled her dead. The next one was drunk and didn’t fight, and he liked that, but he liked the ones who did much, much better. They made it interesting, made his adrenaline surge and his breath come quick, and it was so good,
so
good that he had to do it again. Katherine tried to scream and Ellie screamed and Mary-Anne tried until her throat was bloody. And Aaron James Anderson loved it more than anything else in the world.

He couldn’t see her face – a slip of shape and bone – and Sandra was glad. His free hand came up, pressed against her cheek, a cold burn of metal rings and the catching glide of the etched design. Shifting her arm, Sandra dragged the blade forward.

It didn’t do more than scratch.

Immediately, Aaron sprung back. She couldn’t see his expression, but his arm moved up, pressed against his stomach, air hissing out hard. “You bitch,” he said. She hardly felt the blow before she was forced back. Her one wrist was gripped so tight it felt as though bones broke. She couldn’t keep hold of the knife. She felt the air move as the knife landed somewhere by her foot, an unlucky sting and a hole in her sneakered toe when she stepped on it. A shove, and she stumbled, the wall too close. Aaron’s fist got her in the chest. Sandra tried to curl her arms, protect herself, because she’d seen what came next.

His rings left blood on her face.

He didn’t speak. He’d been quiet in the memories as well. His other hand was on her jaw and it put his fingers close to her neck. Just one little slip and she’d be breathless. Her nails bit deep, left bloody furrows as she tangled her hands against his. She got one fist away, held it tight until her fingers went numb. But his other hand was still at her jaw, and all he had to do was nudge his arm in, snag it right up against her throat and press.

In her head, Meredith Bakerly passed out. Emily Titus died before he had finished, and Leora Flint held on for much too long. All their throats were squeezed tight and Sandra’s head hit the wall, bounced too hard, and hit again. She couldn’t breathe. Aaron’s caught hand got away. She thought he hit her cheek again. Maybe her ribs. All the girls were in her head –
god
, there was at least fifteen. She didn’t know anything anymore. Everything hurt. Breathing felt like swallowing stones.

“You bitch,” he repeated, voice very quiet over the pounding in her skull.

His blood would be in the carpet, she knew. Hers as well. And maybe someone would find her after she was gone. Though, in a place like this, it was likely no one would care. But Danny would know. He’d know and Aaron James Anderson wouldn’t be safe. Not even if it took Danny the rest of his life.

His arm pressed tighter and she realized he hadn’t quit saying it. “You bitch,” he repeated over and over, pressing his arm tighter each time. She couldn’t get air at all anymore. Her body floated. Her legs didn’t hurt when she crashed to the floor.

The oxygen rushing back in did.

The world roared. Someone yelled. The voice was loud and angry as the walls rushed by. Sandra was inside the room and another one and this one and that one and her cheek was busted and her lips bled, but not for real. His rings cut deep, like his fingers and like the fingers on his own throat. There was a swear and a thump and Danny had him on the ground. Aaron snarled, tried to catch Danny’s wrist, but he hadn’t been trained like them. He hadn’t been trained at all. He was angry, and Daniel was cold, calm, thinking clearly, and Aaron was not.

He was bleeding all over the hotel’s dirty carpet floor.

The dark twisted over their writhing forms. Sandra wasn’t sure who was on top and who was throwing the punches and her legs didn’t want to work. She could feel Aaron Anderson’s hands, his hands and Danny’s hands, ghost touches all in her head, and they were both leaving blood, leaving her gasping, falling, with words stuck sharp behind her teeth.

Daniel didn’t hold back. His fists were like Roger’s fists, unrelenting and cruel. He didn’t have a ring but he had a knife. Sandra wanted to get up on her feet – but she wasn’t herself. She was that woman again; she was another woman, all those women until there was nothing of her left. Then it was over and she was alone. Sandra was on the ground.

Get up
, she told herself.

Her knees wobbled, legs shaking, and she had to use the wall to climb to her feet. The wallpaper had a gritty texture, embossed paper, and she stumbled against the carpet, felt the pain in her toe, smashed her hip against the television stand, before finally finding the door. Her hands fumbled for the light switch.

It left her blind.

She blinked and found her sight just in time to see Daniel pick up her knife. And then he brought it down. When he looked up there was blood spattered all over his face.

Sandra breathed, feeling like she was falling all over again.

Daniel climbed to his feet, knuckles scraped, hands and arms red. There was blood on his neck and Sandra didn’t know where else to look. The jacket she’d dropped was near her feet. The sleeve had been soaked. There was too much blood, more than the dark carpet could hide.

What had she been thinking?

“Hey.” Her face was in Danny’s hands. She wanted to pull away. They were freezing and dripping wet but she couldn’t pull her gaze from his. “San,” he said, mere breath of air, and she closed her eyes. “Look at me. Better me. Better me than you,” he said.

She shook her head, or tried to. His fingers slip-slid against her skin, leaving streaks of red behind.

“What do we do?” Fingers twitching at her side, Sandra couldn’t quite make herself move. She was going to hurt, she knew, very soon. But now she was numb, bones rooted through down to the floor. “Why did you …?”

“Better me than you,” he repeated, fingers finally sliding free.

“You knew.” And it felt like the air had been completely punched out of her all over again.