Security(19)

The Killer turns around. Here are the washers. He goes to the first one and feeds it his bloody coveralls, then browses the housekeeping storage shelves: miniature shampoos, conditioners, bubble baths, and body washes. He picks a miniature box of Tide out of a stack, returns to the washer, shakes in half the powder, and places the rest on top of the machine, where Delores will not see it, as she is five foot one. The Killer is approximately six foot four. He shuts the washer door and presses buttons. Beneath the sounds of sloshing water and weight being thrown around, there’s the rumble of despairing moans. The Killer picks up Franklin’s basketball--sized soap sculpture, goes to a large trash can beside the washers, drops it in, and sits on the sheets--folding table. On the table’s outermost corner, a copy of US Weekly vows in neon pink that modernity’s substitutes for gods and myths are, in fact, only human. The Killer flicks open the magazine and reads.





CAMERA 59, 12, 6





I didn’t catch that,” Brian says when Tessa speaks, her voice stifled by expensive leather.

She turns her ear to his heart—“Why are you here?”—and burrows once more into his front, ashamed for having asked.

“To explain.”

She shakes her head into his breastbone; his answer was insufficient.

Brian moves so he is no longer pinning her, exactly. He winds his arms around her back like vines. His hands disappear in her black hair, reappearing as protuberances in the thick sheet that reaches almost to Tessa’s waist. Tessa has her arms around his waist. They are a match, physically. He is narrow. She can reach around him easily. He is not a dedicated weight lifter. He runs, like Tessa does, or plays some raucous team sport, like basketball, that involves ass patting and trash talking, and casual acquaintances he calls “friends.” Excessive cardiovascular training in a fitness routine can undermine muscle development by metabolizing muscle protein. It is a matter of proportion. It is a question of how one wishes one’s body to look. It’s not vanity, per se. The protuberance of Brian’s left hand undulates across Tessa’s scalp. He is also stroking the small of her back. Tessa is shivering. Her nose is now at his neck. She is smelling him. His nose is at the part of her hair; he is smelling her, too. His eyes flutter, then shut tight. His voice is husky. “There are things you don’t know. Things I didn’t tell you, and I need to tell you. I swore I wouldn’t, but—”

Tessa peels off him and takes a small step back.

Brian nods, shoves his hands in his pockets. “I have to tell you.” He says this like Judas explaining why a kiss is necessary. “I have to.” He reaches to Tessa’s nonbandaged hand; she’s still clutching the card key. He slides it from her grasp and turns it around, so that the magnetic strip will face the door when she swipes it. The strip must face the door for the lock to read it. There is a diagram on the card key illustrating this.

Tessa’s face distorts in agony, mixed with anger.

“I’m nervous, too,” Brian says, kindly.

“Why?” says Tessa.

Brian backs a step away. Another. He leans on the opposite side of the hall. “Because it’s weird. We were kids, and now we’re not.” He looks down and sees an errant tuft of carpet that Twombley dis-arranged while sprinting to Room 1516. Brian tucks it smooth with the toe of his motorcycle boot. “We’re grown--ups now. It’s confusing.”

“Why is it confusing?”

He smiles at her, but he sounds exasperated. “You want me to say it?”

“Yeah.” Tessa crosses her arms. “Yeah, Bri, I want you to say everything. Eleven years without a word, and you show up tonight? Why now?”

“That’s part of it.”

“I’ll bet.”

Brian takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms, too. They square off. He says, “I get it.” His voice is firm. “I get it, Tess, I do—”

“You get it, huh?”

“Better than anybody else could.” He points at her. This is a mistake. But, as with his previous mistakes, Tessa does not respond in her typical manner. She doesn’t seem to grow, like a provoked cat. She curls in, like burning paper, and listens to him say, “You can be mad at me. I deserve that. I know I deserve that, a hundred percent. But do not for one second treat me like I don’t understand getting left behind. I’m as much a pro at that as you are.” He stows his pointer finger in his folded arms and says, as if regretful about being so stern, “Almost as much a pro. I had eight fosters and you had twelve before the Dominis.”

“You had a brother die.” She whispers it.

“So did you. Mitch was your brother. Mitch would’ve done jumping jacks on PCH at rush hour for you, Tess.”

“You had a twin brother die. And you talked to him while he died. You held his hand.” She chokes. “I watched it on TV.”

Brian tries to shrug. But he fails, like his shoulder’s too heavy. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “But I really do need your undivided attention.”

Tessa looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Bri. You have it.”

“No, you’re worried there’s a carpet stain behind that door. And that the bandstand’s dirty and there’s a maid you can’t find.” He sounds jocular again. “And your chef’s a f*ckhead.”