What Have We Done (25)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DONNIE

More. That’s what Donnie always craves after the first taste. More.

From that first swig he took in the tree house they’d built in those creepy woods near the freeway in Chestertown to the first line he did backstage at the Whiskey a Go Go in LA … he needed more.

For him, booze, drugs, sex, you name it, were like potato chips. He could never stop at one. Once he started, Donnie Danger would keep going until he was passed out or arrested.

And so it is tonight as he wanders the Florida beach after midnight, a dangerous endeavor, looking for someone to sell him what he needs.

The hotel’s concierge was off duty at this hour, so his usual source for party favors wasn’t available. He’d looked about the hotel, but there were no men with the unmistakable look of a dealer.

So, after wandering up and down the street, after asking a cabbie where he could score and being told to fuck off, he found his way to the beach.

The moon is big and full and he walks in his Chucks, sinking in the sand. He should go to the room, get some shut-eye, call it a night like the writer did.

But he wants more.

There’s a bonfire up ahead. He stumbles over—partiers at an illegal bonfire will know where he can score. There’s about a dozen or so people, kids in their twenties, sharing a bottle. A guy sits, strumming an acoustic guitar. Maybe they’ll ask Donnie to play.

But he arrives to standoffish stares. It’s like on television where there’s a sound of a record scratch and everything abruptly stops. A shirtless guy stands up, dusts off his hands.

“This is a private party,” he says. He has those sculpted muscles that are more for show than strength.

“Whoa, chill, partner, I’m not here to crash your shindig.” Donnie holds up his hands.

“I’m not your partner,” the guy says.

A girl in a bikini comes over, grabs the guy’s arm, tugging him away. “He’s harmless. Come on, Brett, let’s get a drink.”

The guy stares at Donnie. “No one wants you. Get out of here, little man.”

It comes out before Donnie even realizes it: “That’s what she said.”

“What was that?” The guy comes over, gets in Donnie’s face.

Donnie doesn’t repeat it.

“I didn’t think so, you little bitch.”

Donnie shuffles off. He’s coming down hard now. Feeling old, feeling like the nobody he is.

As the firelight gets smaller behind him, he sees a figure approach, a feminine form.

“Hey,” she says. She’s wearing a bikini, has a nice figure—he’s never one to miss that. She wears an unzipped sweatshirt with the hood over her head, shadowing her face.

“Howdy,” he says.

“Leaving the party so soon?” she asks, looking out toward the bonfire.

“No room for an old rocker like me,” he says, trying not to sound pathetic.

She pauses, like she’s studying him, making a realization. “Hey, you’re that guy.”

“And what guy is that?”

“The, um, rock star who got drunk and fell off the cruise ship.”

Donnie chuckles. He’s had three albums go platinum, yet this will be his legacy. A trivia question for “Stump the Trunk,” a story in Metal Edge.

“Have a good night,” he says, giving her a mock tip of the hat. He’s had enough humiliation for one day.

“Wait,” she says, reaching for his arm. “Don’t go,” she says. “It’s a nice night for a swim.”

Before Donnie replies, she’s pulled off the sweatshirt and untied the suit top and is running toward the water.

She dives in and comes up, pulling her hair back, her bare breasts shimmering in the moonlight.

“Come on in,” she calls out to him.

He ponders this. He’s no fan of swimming. But he’s also not one to run from a beautiful naked woman.

He kicks off his shoes and tugs down his jeans. He decides to leave on the underwear. It’s a little cold out, so who knows what’s going on down there.

He approaches the water, incoming waves lapping at his feet.

That’s when he gets the first good look at her face in the silver light. And before he can form a conscious thought, a streak of terror races through his body.

And he turns and runs like hell.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

JENNA

They arrive at the cabin at eleven thirty. There are no neighbors for five miles on either side. The structure, a classic log cabin with a rustic fa?ade that masks a luxurious interior, is dark, no car out front, but Simon would’ve pulled it into the barn.

Jenna looks at Willow, who’s managed to fall asleep, either from exhaustion or as a coping mechanism.

She puts a gentle hand on Willow’s shoulder and her stepdaughter jerks awake.

Willow seems to be out of it for a minute. As if asking herself whether the last eleven hours were an awful dream. A weird nightmare where the stepmom she can’t stand turns out to be some type of criminal or Jason Bourne.

Willow’s expression turns crestfallen with the realization it was not a Wizard of Oz fever dream.

She won’t wake up with her family, Toto, and her life back to normal.

Jenna opens the Jeep’s door, but before she gets out Willow grabs her by the arm.