Final Girls(97)

Tina’s mother stared at her. “No one important.”

Three Years After Pine Cottage

The bar was packed for a Tuesday night. All the stools were filled. Tables, too. Nothing like two-dollar beers to bring in the barely functioning alcoholics. The crowd kept Tina hopping her entire shift as heaps of empty mugs and ketchup-smeared plates came her way. She washed them all, her hands submerged in the water so long her fingers had become shriveled and bleached.

When her shift was over, she whipped off her hairnet and shucked her apron, stuffing them into the laundry bin by the kitchen’s back door. She then headed into the bar itself, claiming the employee-eligible free drink that was supposed to make up for how the owner skimped on wages.

Lyle was tending bar that night. Tina liked him more than the others. He had a handlebar moustache, a sexy overbite and thick, hairy forearms. He poured her drink without even asking what she wanted.

“And a Wild Turkey for Miss Tina,” he said, also pouring one for himself.

They clinked glasses.

“Cheers,” Tina said before downing the whiskey in a single gulp.

She ordered another. Lyle gave it to her for free, even though she told him she had enough cash to pay for it. She sipped this one, sitting at the far end of the bar, people watching. The crowd was a nondescript blur—an interchangeable display of big hair, beer guts and gin blossoms. Tina vaguely recognized most of them.

Then she saw someone she truly did recognize. He was slid into a back booth and getting grabby with a redhead who clearly didn’t want to be grabbed. It had been a few years, but he looked exactly the same. Not even his laughable man perm had changed.

Matt Cromley.

The orderly who had groped her and Heather and God knows how many other women at Blackthorn. Seeing him after all these years unlocked the box in Tina’s mind where the bad memories were stored. It made her think of all the times he had yanked her into that utility closet, plunging his hand down her pants while hissing, You’re not going to tell anyone, you hear? I can make things bad for you, you know. Real bad.

The only person she told was Joe. It made him so mad he offered to stab the slimeball, which is what had landed him at Blackthorn in the first place. Some community college shithead had kept bullying him. Joe fought back by driving a steak knife into his side.

Tina declined the offer. Only now she wished she had taken him up on it. Pricks like Matt Cromley shouldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

That’s why Tina downed her drink. She slipped into the kitchen for a few supplies. Then she sidled up to his booth, gave him a siren’s smile and said, “Hey, stranger.”

Ten minutes later, they were standing in a patch of weeds behind the bar, one of Matt’s hands already snaked down the front of her jeans, the other furiously stroking that miniscule prick of his.

“You like that, don’t you?” he groaned. “Like the way Matty Boy makes you feel?”

Tina nodded, although in truth his touch made her want to puke. But she endured it. She knew it wouldn’t last long.

“How many girls did you do this to?” she said. “Back at Blackthorn?”

“I dunno.” He was practically panting, his voice rough in her ears. “Ten or eleven or twelve.”

Tina’s body went rigid. “This is for them.”

She shoved an elbow into his stomach, which made him double over and back away, taking his cold, slimy hand with him. She then whirled around and punched him. Repeatedly. Quick, sharp jabs right to his nose. Soon he was on his knees, holding his hands to his nose to try to halt the blood spurting out of it.

Tina kicked him. In the stomach. In his ribs. In his groin.

Once he was flat on his back and rolling in pain, Tina shoved a dishrag from the kitchen into his mouth. She yanked off his jeans and underwear. She tore at his shirt, ripping the seams until it was nothing but shreds stuck to his shoulders. Then she tied rope she had found under the kitchen sink around his wrists and ankles. Once he was good and secure, Tina whipped out the black Magic Marker swiped from the whiteboard that listed the daily drink specials. Cap between her teeth, she jerked the marker open and scrawled three words across Matt Cromley’s naked torso.

MOLESTER. PERVERT. SCUM.

She took his clothes with her when she left.

Nine Years After Pine Cottage

It was October, which meant she was thinking about Joe. It always happened when fall rolled around. Even nine years later that crisp chill in the air took her mind back to him in his sand-colored sweater, sneaking down the hall. Wait for me! she had hissed at the back door, trying to catch up to him.

Each year, she thought it would be different, that the memories would fade. But now, though, she suspected they were a permanent part of her. Just like the tattoo on her wrist.

During her smoke break behind the diner, Tina rubbed her thumb across the tattoo, feeling the dark smoothness of the letters.

SURVIVOR.

It had been six years since she got it. Long before she’d found her way north to Bangor. She got it in a fit of inspiration after writing all over Matt Cromley’s pink and pudgy body. She didn’t regret it one bit. It made her feel strong, even though at first she was worried some customers would be put off by it and tip her less. Instead, most folks gave her more. The pity tippers. Thanks to them, she had been able to buy a car. It was nothing but a third-hand Ford Escort, but she didn’t care. Wheels were wheels.