Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) Page 8

  I was in no mood for small-talk. I watched the night pass outside my window, trying to keep my fear at bay. It happened. Again. And without Quentin. It was me. All me. Quentin had nothing to do with it, other than being subjected to my freakishness.

  I couldn’t think about it. Not now.

  “Any other plans for the weekend?” Dylan tried to ask casually. The air shifted, like the nervous energy of someone trying to add electricity to the current.

  “Not much.” I leaned my head against the cool glass. “Homework and stuff.”

  He turned his car into my driveway and stopped near the garage, the engine idling, waiting for one of us to make a move. I reached for the handle and opened the door. The harshness of the overhead light cast a gloomy yellow hue over us, highlighting the indecision playing out on his face. “Good night,” I said, stepping out into the heavy rain coming down, making the decision for him.

  “Good night,” he replied, hesitation still lingering. “I hope you’re not too bruised from your fall.”

  The bruises were the least of my worries. “Bruises heal.” I closed the door and walked into the house, not looking back.

  The house was tranquil. A glow of light spilled from the kitchen door, producing swathes of shadows that reached out and clung tightly to the furniture, trying to pull them out of darkness. I shrugged out of my wet coat, hanging it next to the key rack by the front door. Gingerly, I followed the lure of light to where my dad still sat awake behind his computer.

  I cautiously stepped into the room and glanced at the kitchen clock. Eleven thirty-seven. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

  “I was paying bills.” His computer nicely read him the information he needed to know. “As a matter of fact, I was going over your cell phone bill.”

  The uptake was slow, but my heart dropped with the pit that landed deep in my stomach.

  “It seems there’s a new number you’ve been calling and texting over the past month. I would ask you to tell me who it is, but I called the number myself.”

  “You called the number?” I spat out, shocked. Anger boiled up painfully in my body. “You had no right . . .”

  “I have every right,” his raised voiced cut me off. “You lied to me. You both lied to me.”

  “I can’t believe you called him. I haven’t talked to him since the day he came to the house. He probably thinks I’m some prudish freak having my dad call his cell phone.”

  “I only got his voice mail, but it doesn’t matter. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “No. I. Don’t,” I yelled back, unable to stop my pain and frustration from spewing out. “It doesn’t work this way. You can’t just decide you’re going to start butting into my life after being an absentee father since Mom died.”

  “And you can’t run around with older guys behind my back.” He stood up, bracing himself on the table, his eyes unable to find me. “Especially ones you know nothing about. Something’s not right about him.”

  “Not right about him? Are you kidding? Not right. About. HIM! You have no idea what I know and don’t know,” I countered furiously. “You don’t know him. You don’t know me. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to . . .”

  I couldn’t finish. I was pissed. I stomped from the kitchen, fury igniting with every painful step across the living room. Without thought, I grabbed my car keys off the key rack and ran into the rain — away from my dad. Away from the painful life he represented. I revved my car to life and tore out of the driveway. Aimlessly I drove, up one street and down another, barely seeing through my tears and the constant fog that covered the front windshield.

  How dare he play Dad after abandoning Foster and me, leaving us to drown in our own pain. Alone, scared, with no assurances that a new day would rise. Mom would never have done that to us, no matter the circumstances. She would never have lied to us about her own family.

  No longer able to see through the thick fog on the windshield, I pulled my car into the ferry commuter lot. As I reached in the back to feel around for a rag to wipe the windows, the horn of the approaching ferry startling me. I gave up the search and leaned my head on the headrest. The horn blared again, inflaming the spaces of aggravation in my mind.

  The sound of cars unloading caught my attention, and before I could formulate a plan, I jumped out of my car and ran through the rain to the waiting ferry. A haven. Something to carry me away from this god-forsaken place.

  I stepped aboard and walked heavily up the stairs, keeping my tear-swollen eyes pointed down. I bee-lined straight to the bathroom. Disinfectant cleaner swirled sharply through my nose, jarring me as I caught sight of myself in the mirror. A painful reflection of the truth, calling me out for what I was. A freak. A freak with wet, limp hair, and streaks of black eyeliner, preparing me for a part in the side-show.

  “That’s me,” I muttered. “The freak in the side-show.”

  Out of nowhere, Que Sera Sera began to spin its melody through my head, the same way my mom used to hum it as she worked . . . the future’s not ours to see . . . The tinkling sounds of the piano reminded me of caramel covered apples and carousel rides. But my head bent the notes. Warped them. Distorted them. Forcing the carousel to spin off-kilter with no intention of ever stopping.

  I pushed on the faucet, cupped my hands under the sputtering spray, and prayed the cold water would shake away the pain of the warped song. Of the night. That the splash would wash away the disappointed look that hung from Dad’s face before I ran out.

  I grabbed a wad of paper towels and wiped the eyeliner off my cheeks, the dock reflecting back in my eyes. The little boat. Someone clinging for dear life in the night.

  I shook it off. Panic building. Walls caving. I wanted to give into the exhaustion seeping into my arms and legs, to shut down and curl up on the cold, smelly bathroom tiles and end my own private torture, but the horn blasted, forcing me to move. It was a slow, painful movement from the bathroom to the front of the boat.

  With my head down, I wrapped my arms tight across my chest and clamped my teeth together to keep them from clattering as I made my way to where the passenger bridge was being lowered into place.

  A bridge leading to no one.

  To nothing.

  To nowhere.

  I followed the path of least resistance and moved with a small group of people crossing through the terminal and out to the breezeway. But the group quickly disbanded, leaving me to forge my own path.

  Avoiding the massive downpour, I turned west and descended under the viaduct, an eye-sore that blemished the entire downtown shoreline.

  The damp air seeped under my skin, sending quakes of chills through my body. My nerves worked feverishly to keep surveillance on my surroundings. Every ounce of flesh stood at attention, questioning the wisdom of my swift decision to travel Seattle by foot, without a coat, without a purse, without a phone.

  A small group of people popped out of a dark alley, our paths nearly colliding. My heart lurched into my throat stopping the air from escaping, tumbling me anxiously as they moved on, laughing, oblivious of my presence.

  I backed up against a brick wall. My breath stilted. What was I doing?

  Tears rolled down my cheeks. I needed to bolt, to get back on the ferry, but the lack of motion caused my legs to buckle and I slowly slid down the wall, my descent unstoppable. As were the harsh tingles and ravaging images that once again took control of my body.

  The dock.

  The boat.

  The thrashing water threatening to topple the shadowy figure that clung desperately to the sides.

  I tried to push them back, to gain control of my mind and move my legs back underneath me, but the resistance in my head caused my decision making to lag.

  Open your eyes and stand, I told myself, refusing to pass out in the dark. Alone. Open your eyes and stand.

  I forced my eyes open and focused all my energy to my legs, using the wall to brace my punishing progress. I had to find a phone. A way out of her
e.

  I looked around the dark viaduct, my eyes locking onto the glow of a small neon sign.

  OK Hotel.

  My eyes focused on the “OK,” my painful gait praying it would be as I limped toward the door where a large man dressed in black was checking ID.

  “You’re not twenty-one,” he said brusquely.

  “I know. I just need to borrow a phone”

  “You need to be twenty-one.”

  Desperate pleas tumbled from my mouth. “I’m stranded and really need to call a friend to pick me up.”

  “You can’t go in the club,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. After a lifetime of seconds, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “You’ll stand right there. You have one minute.”

  I had to keep myself from throwing my arms around him in relief. “Thank you.”

  I turned my back and dialed his number. The rings were endless until his voicemail kicked in. I couldn’t believe it. “Quentin. It’s Cee. I’m down near the OK Hotel and could really use a ride.” I hung up, hating the sound of my helpless and pathetic voice.

  I handed the phone back to the bouncer. “Thanks.”

  “Friend on the way?”

  “Um, yeah. Should be here soon,” I lied, moving my exhausted body away from the door. Away from yet another person looking at me like I was a freak.

  I wandered in and out of the parked cars that stretched on as far as the eye could see, the muffled ferry horn blowing in the distance. I couldn’t go back. I had no money. No nothing. I had no idea where to go. Minutes stretched forever.

  “Miss? Are you okay?” I heard a male voice ask, but assumed he was talking to someone else.

  I continued to weave in and out of the cars.

  The voice grew closer. “Miss? Do you need help? Have you lost your car?”

  I turned around. A guy in his mid-thirties, dressed in khaki’s and a blazer was pointing at me, closing the gap between us. The dark reared up, causing a fine layer of sweat to break out over my freezing body. “Um, no. I’m fine.”

  “I can help.”

  “I don’t need help,” I said, trying not to be crippled by the frenzy of fear inside me.

  “Everyone needs a little help now and then.” He moved closer. Close enough to pinch down on my shoulder. I instinctively came out swinging, and backhanded him across the face. He shook off the sting and gripped my arm like a vice.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he hissed. The stench of his alcohol laced breath set off my gag reflex.

  “She’s with me.”

  I turned as Quentin stepped from the shadows, his dark clothes blending perfectly with the night. My body flooded with relief at the sound of his commanding voice, while my eyes drank in his beautiful, severe features.

  “I think this one can talk for herself,” the man said indignantly, letting go of my arm with a push. My bruised legs collapsed under me. “And I believe she’s with me.”

  Quentin’s reply came in the form of a right hook to the man’s jaw line, followed by a left one to the gut.

  The guy doubled over writhing in pain.

  “Hey!” someone behind me yelled, stirring up a commotion in the parking lot.

  Before I could grasp what was happening, Quentin squatted down and scooped me up, moving us away from the small gathering of night owls.

  I twisted my head over Quentin’s shoulder and watched the man stand and stumble. His confused features had replaced the bravado of his masculine prowess. “Quentin, shouldn’t we call the police or . . .” I began to ask.

  “Hold still.” His tone was harsh in my ear, which my body responded to and froze. I clung to his black coat, shivering. Greedily inhaling his musky scent. The man’s shouts becoming a distant tirade.

  My body relaxed into his as he carried me to his car and deposited me down on the passenger seat. He slammed the door closed, jarring my senses.

  He silently climbed in and turned over the engine, tearing out of the parking lot and into the rain.

  “What happened . . . back . . . there?” I whispered in the dark car, my shivers impeding my ability to talk coherently. “I don’t understand why . . . How did you get here so fast?”

  Quentin cranked the heater full blast. “How about we not play twenty questions.” His voice was curt, his face fierce with anger.

  I sat, quietly, not having the energy to fight. He sped north on Alaskan Way and made his way into the heart of Queen Anne, the Space Needle loomed over us as we passed the Seattle Center. We zig-zagged up one street and down another. I was completely disoriented.

  Abruptly, he pulled his car into a driveway with a small white house that sat back from the road. Every window was pitch black. Not even a porch light hinted that someone lived here. Without a word, he got out and made the reverse trek back to my door. He opened it and stood perfectly still. I did the same because I didn’t think I could stand without falling.

  “Are you coming in?”

  Determined not to feel intimidated by his scowl, I stared straight ahead and said, “I can’t.”

  He exhaled sharply. “CeeCee, get out of the car.” He paused and added, “Please.”

  I gingerly swung my legs around without looking at him and placed both feet firmly on the ground, attempting to stand. As I shifted the balance of my weight, my legs crumpled. I waited for the fall. But it didn’t come. Instead, I was cradled back in Quentin’s arms as he carried me out of the black of night and into the shadows of his home.

  My eyes were slow to adjust, peeking over his shoulder, trying to get my bearings. He pulled me away from his chest, my body hovering in thin air before he gently set me down on a cool, leather couch and disappeared into the darkness. I strained to hear him as he moved about, opening and closing doors. And then all was silent. Too silent. Until something draped around me, causing me to jump and send a painful jolt through my bruised body.

  A small table lamp flicked on. I squinted against the soft glow, waiting for my pupils to adjust. Quentin reached out and pulled the blanket tight around my shivering body and sat down next to me, his nearness wreaking a havoc all its own.

  “You need to get in a hot shower.” His face was expressionless. His perfected barrier in place.

  “It happened again.” The words just popped out. I couldn’t look at him. Instead my eyes darted around the bare room. There were no pictures or art, hardly anything to fill the space contained by the four walls. “Out of nowhere. It happened again. Without you. You weren’t there.”

  He took a deep breath and ran both hands through his hair. “Where were you?”

  “At school. A dance. I fell. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t get out from underneath the trampling feet.” His hand moved to my lower back where I’d been kicked. Reflexively I pulled away, his touch sending a jolt of pain through my body.

  Misunderstanding my movement, he quickly snatched his hand back, his voice frustrated. “What did you see?”

  The images tumbled urgently from my mouth. “It was the boat again. And someone was in it. Clinging desperately to the sides. Water was everywhere.”

  He sat up straighter. “Was it any clearer?”

  “No. But it was desperate. It felt desperate.” I felt desperate.

  “If you were at a dance, how did you end up at the OK Hotel?” The hardness in his voice was back.

  My eyes quickly danced over his face before looking away. “I fought with my dad and ran out.”

  A huge breath whooshed from his mouth. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  My flight from the island suddenly felt childish under his scrutiny. “No,” I said quietly, a tear escaping from my neatly contained dam. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He reached out, cupped his hand to the side of my face as his thumb brushed away the tear. The hurt. The fear.

  I turned, my eyes traveling to find his. The deep cuts of his face turned vulnerable, the softness catching me off guard. Without thought, I shook my arm free from the blanket and
carefully reached out, tracing the soft line of his scar with the tips of my fingers.

  Overwhelmed with emotion, I leaned in. Hovering. Waiting. Unsure.

  Until I saw it.

  A warm smolder in his eyes as he laced his fingers in my hair, pulling me to him, closing the gap, sealing his lips over mine. He pulled me tighter, the new sensation over-riding the pain shooting through me, creating a new energy all its own. Energy that escalated with every breath we tried to catch. It was electrifying, without thought, without care. Unburdened by the outside world.

  Abruptly he stood, pushing away from me.

  “This can’t happen. You have no idea,” he said through clenched teeth. He stormed from the room, leaving me alone to stumble and catch my breath. I touched my lips, still warm from his. When he returned, he held out a chocolate brown towel to me. “You need to take a shower before your shivering turns into hypothermia.”

  I needed to leave and save a shred of my rejected dignity. “I need to catch a ferry.”

  “It’s after two in the morning. The ferries have quit running.”

  Painfully I stood, determined not to be the one left broken on the couch. I was tired. Tired of people telling me what to do. Telling me what I knew and what I didn’t know. Bravely, I asked, “Why did you come for me? How did you get there so fast? Why didn’t we call the cops?”

  “The guy was drunk. I was not about to waste time on statements, only for him to get a slap on the wrist and walk.” His answer was quick. Too quick. He began pacing.

  I stood and pressed on. “Quentin, how did you find me so fast?”

  “I was already downtown when you called.” He stopped and focused his intimidating eyes on me, the returned lines cutting severe paths across his face. “You shouldn’t have been anywhere near there.”

  His answer brought me up short. I took in his dark clothes, realization dawning that he’d probably been out on a date. One I interrupted and then topped off by throwing myself at him. The thought was mortifying. I imagine the heat in my cheeks would be obvious to that.

  Interrupting my thoughts, he said with a sigh, “CeeCee, it’s been a long night. I think you should take a hot shower and crash.”