go.”
He released her. Her eyes had darkened and she flinched
when thunder rumbled in the distance.
In his mind’s eye he could see exactly what she was
recalling right now: wet clothing yanked away, sweat-slicked bodies locked
together, fog rising on the windows of her ancient Grand Prix. He squinted
through the rain at the crossover and truck he’d noticed in the driveway when
he’d arrived. “Bought a new car?”
If she was startled she didn’t show it. But her next
words gave her away. “Don’t think about that night, Peyton.”
“I won’t,” he said, turning to leave. “You’re thinking
about it enough for the both of us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
H E’D SAID HE wouldn’t think about that night.
He hadn’t said he wouldn’t dream
about it. It was primitive, basic, unstoppable … how shards of memory slipped
into his subconscious, bringing his senses alive as he peeled away Valerie’s
hoodie and bra as the edgy sound of Poison pounded throughout the car’s
interior.
Peyton jolted awake, finding himself in a room so unlike
the apartment he’d rented in Baltimore. He barely gave his eyes time to adjust
to the predawn darkness before he kicked away the sheet twisted around his legs
and shot out of bed. Being in this room was getting to him, he figured,
dragging a shaky hand through his mussed hair and across the stubble on his
jaw. He flipped on the lamp and took in what he hadn’t wanted to see the day
before.
Nearly everything was how he’d left it thirteen years
ago—despite the certainty that the room had been tossed during a search for
clues as to his whereabouts when it’d first dawned that he’d left. The deep
blue wall coverings and stucco ceiling remained unchanged; so did all the
furniture. The old-fashioned phonograph and classical records he’d inherited
from Estella occupied a table in one corner—it would’ve been impossible to
travel with them. A life-size plastic skeleton stood guard near the door,
wearing the Stetson Valerie had given Peyton one summer at a folk festival in
the Square during Old Towne Days. The desk and hutch were cluttered with textbooks
and notepads and junk from his college days.
He bent to pick up the duvet he must’ve knocked aside
during the night. He flung it across the bed, ditching sleep altogether. On his
way to the bathroom he let his eyes sweep over the photograph of his father
that was arranged among other assorted pictures on his bureau. He wished he
could miss his father, wished even more that he’d known the man who, in his
thirties, had been fatally hit by a car after a fashion event in Milan.
Anthony Turner lived in Peyton’s imagination as a
character—a man with brains, old-Hollywood good looks, talent and charm who had
worked damn hard but played harder. He was the man people had expected his boy
to be, but it hadn’t taken Peyton long to realize he’d be a piss-poor copy of
the original and there was no point in cramming himself into a lifestyle he
didn’t want or fit into.
“What would you say about me now, Pa?” Peyton muttered,
pausing to straighten his father’s photograph. He took in the row of baseball
trophies, the autographed picture of the baseball autographed by the Texas Rangers, academic merit
medals that hung from the corners of frames showing candid shots of family and
friends. He selected the photo taken of him and Valerie together in the Jordan
barn when he’d been sixteen. He’d posed wearing a crooked cowboy hat and was
hugging Valerie, who had a red-and-white-checked tablecloth tied around her
neck like a cape.
It was almost impossible to believe they’d really been
that silly … no, happy … once.
He carefully laid the photo facedown and went into the
bathroom. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the hot shower still feeling
groggy and tired to the bone, but knew as he snatched a white tee shirt and a
pair of dark pajama pants from his suitcase that he didn’t stand a chance of
getting any real sleep.
He released her. Her eyes had darkened and she flinched
when thunder rumbled in the distance.
In his mind’s eye he could see exactly what she was
recalling right now: wet clothing yanked away, sweat-slicked bodies locked
together, fog rising on the windows of her ancient Grand Prix. He squinted
through the rain at the crossover and truck he’d noticed in the driveway when
he’d arrived. “Bought a new car?”
If she was startled she didn’t show it. But her next
words gave her away. “Don’t think about that night, Peyton.”
“I won’t,” he said, turning to leave. “You’re thinking
about it enough for the both of us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
H E’D SAID HE wouldn’t think about that night.
He hadn’t said he wouldn’t dream
about it. It was primitive, basic, unstoppable … how shards of memory slipped
into his subconscious, bringing his senses alive as he peeled away Valerie’s
hoodie and bra as the edgy sound of Poison pounded throughout the car’s
interior.
Peyton jolted awake, finding himself in a room so unlike
the apartment he’d rented in Baltimore. He barely gave his eyes time to adjust
to the predawn darkness before he kicked away the sheet twisted around his legs
and shot out of bed. Being in this room was getting to him, he figured,
dragging a shaky hand through his mussed hair and across the stubble on his
jaw. He flipped on the lamp and took in what he hadn’t wanted to see the day
before.
Nearly everything was how he’d left it thirteen years
ago—despite the certainty that the room had been tossed during a search for
clues as to his whereabouts when it’d first dawned that he’d left. The deep
blue wall coverings and stucco ceiling remained unchanged; so did all the
furniture. The old-fashioned phonograph and classical records he’d inherited
from Estella occupied a table in one corner—it would’ve been impossible to
travel with them. A life-size plastic skeleton stood guard near the door,
wearing the Stetson Valerie had given Peyton one summer at a folk festival in
the Square during Old Towne Days. The desk and hutch were cluttered with textbooks
and notepads and junk from his college days.
He bent to pick up the duvet he must’ve knocked aside
during the night. He flung it across the bed, ditching sleep altogether. On his
way to the bathroom he let his eyes sweep over the photograph of his father
that was arranged among other assorted pictures on his bureau. He wished he
could miss his father, wished even more that he’d known the man who, in his
thirties, had been fatally hit by a car after a fashion event in Milan.
Anthony Turner lived in Peyton’s imagination as a
character—a man with brains, old-Hollywood good looks, talent and charm who had
worked damn hard but played harder. He was the man people had expected his boy
to be, but it hadn’t taken Peyton long to realize he’d be a piss-poor copy of
the original and there was no point in cramming himself into a lifestyle he
didn’t want or fit into.
“What would you say about me now, Pa?” Peyton muttered,
pausing to straighten his father’s photograph. He took in the row of baseball
trophies, the autographed picture of the baseball autographed by the Texas Rangers, academic merit
medals that hung from the corners of frames showing candid shots of family and
friends. He selected the photo taken of him and Valerie together in the Jordan
barn when he’d been sixteen. He’d posed wearing a crooked cowboy hat and was
hugging Valerie, who had a red-and-white-checked tablecloth tied around her
neck like a cape.
It was almost impossible to believe they’d really been
that silly … no, happy … once.
He carefully laid the photo facedown and went into the
bathroom. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the hot shower still feeling
groggy and tired to the bone, but knew as he snatched a white tee shirt and a
pair of dark pajama pants from his suitcase that he didn’t stand a chance of
getting any real sleep.
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