Real Bad Things(45)

She spit in his face.

Stunned, he released his grip and swiped at his head. His shock flared to rage, and he raised his hand as if to slap her.

Before he could, she took off running down the porch steps, past the cars, across the road, and into the woods near the river, swatting at branches as she raced past them, instinct kicking in and telling her to run like the devil was after her because that’s what his footsteps sounded like as they crashed behind her. She ran as fast as she could, and then she was on the ground, twisted and tangled in his limbs. They thrashed together. Twigs and pebbles ground into her bare skin. Dirt gathered in her hair, but she wouldn’t stop. She would keep fighting, and she would keep kicking until he was off her and in the dirt instead. But her strength was no match to his. He straddled her.

“You been talking to Diane? Been taking lessons?”

She kept fighting, tried to scratch and claw. Warm liquid hit her face and found its way into her mouth. She gagged and spit to the side.

“How you like that, huh? Y’all think you can just hit me and spit at me and get away with it? Like I’ll just take it?” He laughed and winced, even though she hadn’t done anything but try to squirm out of his grip. “You got a death wish if you think you can fuck with me, bitch.”

Her elbows jabbed the earth as she tried to buck him off even as her energy waned. His bony knees pinned her shoulders to the ground. She rocked her head side to side, but he caught her and shoved his fingers into her mouth. His dirty nails screeched across her teeth and scraped her gums. She tasted blood and fought to clench, bite down, but he managed to pry and keep her mouth open. He gathered his phlegm with a great hocking sound. His face hovered over her, lips puckered for another round, this time straight into her mouth.

As he opened his mouth and his tongue pushed through, Jason’s voice came through the din. She yanked her head to the side. Warm spit coated her neck and slid down her skin to wet her shirt.

She clawed at the space where Warren’s body had held her down, looking for purchase. But he wasn’t there. She scrambled to her knees and struggled to see in the dark. Grit irritated her eyes, her mouth. The pounding in her ears and rush of water in the nearby dam muted all other noise. She searched the ground for a weapon, anything to fill her hand, but found nothing.

She clambered to her feet on unsteady legs. No one there but her. Confused, she pulled at her clothing, confirmed the smears of dirt, blood. She ran a hand along her neck, felt the wetness on the top of her shirt, in her hair. She spun in a circle.

Where was Warren?

Someone, something, moved behind her, and she turned to meet it, heart racing, hand in the air, ready to strike.

“No!” Jason screamed and clutched her arm before she could send it down on his head.

She’d been alone. She could’ve sworn it.

Jason looked older. Stronger. Calmer. Slowly, she dropped her arm. Behind him, Warren’s lifeless body seeped blood onto the ground. Air caught in her throat. Her arm ached. Something slipped out of her hand and hit her foot.

A blood-covered rock settled against her once-white shoes.

Jason bent over and picked up the rock, examined it, analyzed its heft. Blood transferred from the rock to his hand. There was so much blood.

She blinked and blinked. Slowly. Each time hoping that what she saw on the ground—who she saw on the ground—wasn’t real. Finally, she found her voice. “Is he . . . did I . . . ?”

Before he had a chance to answer, Jane and Angie came running through the trees and stopped abruptly once they saw who was on the ground. But Georgia Lee didn’t need Jason to say anything. The look on his face and the way that Warren’s blood seeped and his body stilled were all the confirmation she needed to know that she had done a very, very bad thing.





Fourteen

GEORGIA LEE

The lights burned bright in the living room despite the hour. Rusty reclined in his easy chair, playing some game he’d gotten addicted to on his phone. The boys craned their heads toward the TV screen, controllers in hand, hats backward, shouting obscenities at each other and the virtual players on the screen. All distracted and disinterested even as Georgia Lee entered the room, hours later than normal. The pharmacy long since closed.

She had to be alone, to think. She couldn’t think. Images of that night spun in her head. She examined her hands, expecting to find Warren’s blood.

My God. What kind of monster was she?

A tiny gasp from her mouth surprised her. They drew their heads toward her.

Tim and Tate searched Rusty’s face for a sign of what they should do or say. He didn’t offer a word. They sat in confusion when she didn’t respond, as if she lived to guide and serve and provide words for them. And she did. She had. She’d spent so much time ensuring they were comfortable and fed and clothed. And here they were now, her three men. All taller than her. Stronger, if physicality were the judge. More than capable. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d done something for her. Not one of them had texted to see why she was late, to ensure she hadn’t been hurt or harmed or died in a car wreck. Usually, they all spoke at once. Three mouths morphing into one giant want she didn’t have the energy or inclination to fill anymore.

Not one of them asked if she was okay.

She gripped her purse strap, readjusted it on her shoulder, commanded her voice to sound normal. No cracking. No crying. Upstairs. She had to get upstairs. Now.