Shame ON You Page 9

  I nodded again, allowing my thoughts to marinate a bit.

  “Guilty pleasures. Your generation knows about that, right?” she asked.

  She must have thought I was three decades older. “We invented guilty pleasures.”

  She giggled.

  My curiosity was piqued. “So, what about them?”

  “Well, I knew a girl who would see a guy just because she knew he was a bad boy. It was almost like she was getting back at her parents and her conservative upbringing.”

  “On the down-low, huh?”

  She tilted her head in confusion.

  “Never mind.”

  We finally all walked out of The Pier and said our goodbyes. Cristina walked off with Poppy. I could tell Ivy wanted to step in and offer an alternative, but somehow she held back. I asked Kate if she had a ride. She said she was texting a friend to pick her up.

  “Thanks for the PI discussion,” she said, with a playful punch to my arm.

  “Sure.”

  “If you have any other college-type questions that might help you out, let me know.”

  I had questions, but none she could answer.

  18

  Kate ran her fingertips along the plush leather as her head rocked aimlessly back and forth. Her brain swayed with each turn, as if it were bobbing in an ocean.

  Her eyes shot a passing glance at the brightly lit touch-screen panel and silver knobs on the dash. Everything was so shiny and new. She wanted to reach out and grab one of those shimmering things, but she knew he’d probably scold her like she was a little child.

  She was no child. She’d done things in her life. Turned boys to men. More than anyone else knew. It had been her own little secret, not because she craved sex as much as she craved what she could get in return. That soothing feeling that was nearly indescribable. Euphoric. Orgasmic.

  The man to her left had shot to number one on her list during the last few months. He had, for the most part, become her exclusive go-to guy. She knew he was anything but a one-woman man. It didn’t matter much to her. Not really. She’d rocked his world, and he’d reciprocated…but in a different kind of way. And for that, she’d become loyal to him, if not a tad dependent. Not something she really wanted out of their so-called “relationship.” It had just happened. The last few weeks especially, leading up to the reunion, she’d found it more and more difficult to control her impulses and desires.

  Memories had been her greatest enemy. One in particular. And the anxiety paralyzed her still to this day, which was why she’d become close to those who could take it all away.

  Occasionally, during one of her few moments of reflection when she wasn’t high as a kite or lamenting the path in life she’d taken, she was able to peel back her layers of pain, sorrow, and regret and connect with her inner self. The one whose life seemed perfectly happy…up until…

  A breath clicked in her throat, and she momentarily choked on her saliva.

  “You better not blow chunks on my new car,” he barked.

  She brushed the back of her hand across her lips. “Chill. I’m all good.” Her voice sounded almost foreign, as if it belonged to Kate at age thirteen, or maybe someone else altogether.

  Then, again, she knew her mind was swirling like a blender. And it was fucking fun.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked.

  “You know.” A chuckle.

  She watched his hand grab the stick and downshift. The car bucked and then bolted in and out of traffic. The sky roof whirred open. The cool nighttime air lit up her eyes. She raised a fist upward. He began to scream at the top of his lungs. He was feeling it, and that only elevated her sense of ecstasy. She looked up, saw a red light, but he rocketed right through it as horns honked, tires screeched. They were both riding this wave at the same time. Nothing could top this. Nothing could replace the absolute escape from reality.

  She blinked, and her body lurched forward, restrained only by the seatbelt. A sudden turn to the left, and then the car jerked to a stop. He got out of the car. She could hear at least two voices, but it was so dark it was difficult to determine what exactly was going on. Buildings were close on both sides. They had to be in an alley.

  That other voice. The baritone laugh, followed by a bunch of cuss words.

  Her heart began to thump her chest plate. Was it a reaction to the windowpane she’d taken? Maybe. But it was too soon. An image flashed through her mind…from their second so-called “date.” Similar setting to right now. Her “date” had a connection. That was all well and good. She knew he had to get his shit from someone. But the transaction that night hadn’t been just a straight cash deal. She’d been so fucked up, she’d wondered afterward if it had actually happened. But slowly, over time, the sketchy memories began to connect, right up until she forced the painful thought into that place in her mind where it couldn’t be retrieved. And there it had sat, alongside her greatest secret.

  The laughter and cussing continued, and it began to take the door off her mental hinges.

  Before she could logically think about how to protect herself, the car door on her side opened. A hand grabbed her arm.

  “What are we doing?”

  A moment later, her date had her up against a wall, her face planted against brick that was coated with a sticky goo. Maybe week-old ketchup? He lifted her skirt and had his way with her. A tear rolled down her eye, not because of the sex. They’d always finished their LSD trips with a quickie. And a few times, like now, it would be raw, animalistic.

  The tear was because of what would follow.

  And sure enough, the other man chuckled as he wrapped his fingers along her waist. He chuckled and cussed, calling her every foul name that existed. He got off on it. She was in dire pain, but she couldn’t fight back. Her face was being rammed into the brick, and she could smell her own blood. Just like the other time. No, it was worse—she was far more aware of what was going on. Her body was consumed by his hate, his sickening perversion.

  It ended, and she dropped to the ground. She could feel her mind cracking at the edges.

  “Good enough for now,” the vulgar man said.

  “Well, don’t get used to it,” her date said. “I don’t like sharing my women. It goes against everything that I am.”

  “Fucking prick.”

  “What’d you call me?”

  She heard their shoes shuffle across pebbles, but she cared nothing about their macho act. She knew they saw her as nothing more than a pawn. Worse. A piece of meat that wasn’t suitable to be shown in public.

  Her thoughts darted frantically, looking for safe refuge, an escape.

  But they landed on the exact opposite. They went to that one night so many years ago. That time when she was told the secret that would change her life—so many lives—forever.

  She couldn’t keep it bottled up. She wanted to share it. But in her heart of hearts, she didn’t want to see more people hurt.

  For now, she kept all the devastation to herself, even though it was enough to rock the world off its axis.

  19

  Ivy and I stood at the front of a large room filled with people who had blankets on their laps or shawls wrapped around their shoulders. Outside of a few folks who’d fallen asleep, the majority of men and women had expressions full of energy and enthusiasm. Today was game day, we were told by the woman who led us to Massey Hall, the largest room at the Barnes Assisted Living Center.

  The room was buzzing, some people smiling, others looking a bit disgusted, and some voicing their displeasure with the rules. At most tables, the residents were playing a card game. I spotted the woman with the burnt-orange shawl. I nudged Ivy, and we headed toward her table.

  “Show me the money, Steve. Show me the damn money! Woo-hoo!” the elderly woman shouted as she shifted a large pile of plastic chips in front of her. As she leaned over, a silver necklace dangled from her neck. She was thick up top, wore silver-rimmed glasses, and her hair was a rainbow of gray.

 
“I know you’re cheating, Jean.” A man to her right was pointing a finger at her. He had a thick, white mustache, and his eyebrows were just as bushy. The three outcroppings of hair all twitched with every word he spoke. “I just don’t know how you’re doing it. But when I do, I’m going to turn your ass into management. And then they’re going to go into your room and give me back all my money!”

  “Ah, Steve, quit your whining.” She looked around, saw Ivy and me standing there, ignored us, and went back to Steve. “Keep your voice down, will you? All four of us made an agreement. Betting real money makes it a lot more fun. But the muckety-mucks will shut us down if you keep bitching and moaning every time you lose.”

  He growled and tossed his cards on the table. The two others in the foursome seemed to be a little mellower, almost as though they’d been given some type of tranquilizer.

  Steve strummed his fingers on the table; then he stopped and rubbed the top of his hand. Arthritis maybe? “It’s just not fair, Jean. You’ve won six weeks in a row. You’re not only taking my money, you’re hurting my pride. I used to be the best poker player around.”

  She waved a hand in his direction. “You’ve won plenty, Steve. You just don’t remember it. I think you’re losing it up here a bit.” She poked a finger at her head. “We all are, to a degree. But I remember you winning a lot.”

  All three of his white hair patches moved in concert. “Maybe. But when I won, it was just a few bucks. You win, and it’s taking my grandkids’ inheritance.”

  “You’re such a drama queen, Steve.” She froze for a second, then dropped her hand to the table. I saw about four rings on it. She cackled. “Steve, Steve, the drama queen.”

  He opened up his wallet and gave her a wad of cash, then pushed away from the table. “I’ll get you back next week. You better bring your A game, that’s all I can say. Drama queen, my ass.” He snatched his cane off the floor and hobbled away at the pace of a caterpillar.

  I cleared my throat, and Jean looked up at us.

  “Are you the IRS or something?”

  “No ma’am. But we’d like—”

  “Good, because I’m going back to my room and calling my bookie.” She stuffed the cash inside her button-up shirt, almost like she was working at a strip joint. Perhaps she had in a previous life. She pushed away from the table, and I realized she was in a wheelchair.

  “Jean, we’d like a few minutes of your time, if you don’t mind.”

  She turned her head, looked up at us, and readjusted her glasses on her nose. “What for? I usually don’t get visitors.”

  I crouched lower to reach her eye level, but on my way down, my hip gave out, and I fell against the table.

  “What’s going on with you, old man?” Jean said.

  “Ozzie, you okay?” Ivy reached her hand out.

  My hip felt like it had just been stabbed by a screwdriver. I grabbed her hand. “Thanks, Ivy.”

  Jean laughed and said, “Ozzie? Ivy? Are you two some kind of vaudeville act or something?”

  I got to my feet and moved my leg up and down to loosen up my hip. I blew out a breath, hoping that would somehow lower my pain level.

  “Can we go someplace private and talk?” I asked Jean as nicely as my temperament would allow.

  “What’s this all about? You want my money, don’t you? Well, you’re not getting a penny.”

  “Jean, we just want to talk to you.”

  “It’s about Chantel,” Ivy blurted.

  Jean went still for a second. “Why didn’t you say so? My room. One of you needs to push me.”

  Ivy took hold of the handlebars on her wheelchair and started pushing her forward. A few folks waved as we walked past them, but some had this look of shock on their faces. I noticed a couple sitting in rockers giving Jean the eye; then they leaned in closer to each other and whispered behind cupped hands. Jean seemed to ignore the gossipers. Or maybe she had poor eyesight.

  We wound our way through a maze of halls. The walls of each hallway were painted a different color. We finally reached her room about halfway down on the orange hallway. Orange shawl, orange hallway. I was seeing a trend.

  Once inside, she took control of her chair and wheeled it over to the other side of her bed. “I need you to turn around for a minute.”

  “Okay,” I said. Ivy and I traded a curious glance. It seemed that Jean was rather protective of her money.

  “You can close that door while you’re at it,” Jean said.

  Ivy closed the door, while keeping her back to Jean. It was tempting to sneak a peek over my shoulder, but I didn’t want to get kicked out before we got started on the questions. We needed Jean to trust us and share everything she knew—if there was anything to share.

  “Okay, I’m ready to talk.” She came back around the bed and parked herself in front of two chairs. “Sit.”

  We did as she said, although I lowered myself at a slower rate. Jean gave me a funny look. Then, she began to chew on a nail, her eyes shifting between me and Ivy. “Why are you asking about Chantel?”

  Ivy spoke first. “She’s been missing for two months. Her parents are worried sick. We were wondering if she might have reached out to you. I understand that you two had a real special connection when she was younger.”

  More eye shifting. “Who are you? Not your names. Ozzie, Ivy. Strange, but that doesn’t matter. What do the two of you have to gain out of all this?”

  Her trust issues seemed to be built into the foundation of her personality.

  “I…we were hired by your daughter, Marilyn, and Adam.”

  “Hired? Are you—” She stopped short, as if she were quizzing us.

  “We’re private investigators,” Ivy said, shooting a glance my way. “And more than anything, we just want to find her and make sure she’s safe.”

  “So you know about her issues?”

  I exhaled. “We know her life has been really tough since her sister went missing many years ago. I really hope we can find Chantel, get her the help she needs to turn her life around.”

  She went back to biting her nail, her eyes gazing off into the distance. Her abrasive temperament was different than that of her daughter, Marilyn, but there was a vague visual resemblance. Not much of one, though.

  A few seconds ticked by, and she just kept chomping on her nail. I began to wonder if her mental faculties were all there.

  “Jean, would it be helpful for us to show you a picture of—”

  Just then, her door swung open.

  “Hey, Jean, you want to go with the regular lunch today?” A woman in a blue uniform stepped just inside the room.

  “What?” Jean squawked. She came out of her trance like an angry bear, flailing her arm at the poor lady. “Can’t you see I’m in a conversation?”

  I wouldn’t say we’d reached that level just yet.

  The woman held up a defensive hand and slowly inched backward. I guessed she’d seen this side of Jean before. Then again, we’d yet to see any other side. “No worries, Jean. You have fun with your visitors.”

  “Can’t a woman get some peace in this place? Everyone’s so damn nosy. And worse than that, they all want your money.”

  The door shut, and Jean leaned forward and pointed a finger at us. It rotated between me and Ivy. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I thought it might actually shoot out some type of venomous dart.

  A sly smile crossed her face, splintering her skin into a plethora of lines. “Just like the two of you. You’re a couple of ambulance-chasing PIs who probably heard about this story from some cop friend or something. And then you went in for the kill with my daughter and her husband. Yep, I done figured you out. You are snakes.”

  She cackled as if she’d she just uncovered a conspiracy on the level of the Illuminati plotting to create a single world government.

  I knew we had our hands full with Jean.

  20

  Ivy shook her head. “Do you know how much Marilyn is suffering right now, Jean?”


  “Eh.”

  Scrooge had nothing on Jean, certainly not in the curmudgeon and money departments.

  “Look,” I said, trying to be more diplomatic. “We don’t want to get involved in your disagreement with your daughter. I’m sure there’s a lot of baggage there. But we really want—”

  “Baggage?” She looked like she’d been forced to swallow an enema. “You want me to tell you about baggage?”

  Actually, I had very little desire. “I’m sure it’s been tough on you, Jean.”

  “They blew me off. Hadn’t even tried to come by and visit in more than a year.” She put a fist to her chin. For the first time, she showed an emotion other than vitriol. Her eyes seemed glassy.

  “Those are adult issues, Jean,” Ivy said. “It might suck, but I’m telling you that Marilyn and Adam are crushed. They haven’t seen their daughter in two months. They’re beginning to lose hope. And since this happened once before—”

  “Oh, Ally.” Jean’s voice suddenly dropped into a normal, almost wistful tone.

  There was a welcome moment of silence. Then, the pensive Jean continued. “I miss Ally.” Her eyes shifted to three framed pictures on her dresser. I could see one of Ally wearing a graduation cap and gown. “Ally was quite a girl. There are days that I think she might somehow still be alive, but I know it’s just my way of hoping for the best.” She pursed her lips. “I’m a glass-half-full kind of person…”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ivy suppressing a smile. I know I was.

  “So, I have a tendency to get disappointed when the world seems to punish us. I know I can be a bit difficult, but it’s only a protection mechanism. I don’t want people I care about to get hurt.”

  Somehow, we’d been able to peel away her nasty exterior and find something resembling a human being. My mind quickly went back to an earlier statement.

  “Jean, you said you missed Ally. You didn’t mention Chantel.”