Her eyes were bruised. Her lips were too. I'll kiss her for you. I'll kiss her for you. I'll drink your drink and eat your fruit. I'll play the fool, the fucking tool. Pass the time and break your rules. -Jack Killian
Chapter Three
Despite it being my second summer in Sacramento, I was again surprised by its length and its heat, and I watched as everything green around me shriveled and shared my despair. Sacramento took on a tormented energy under the oppression—a Vegas-vibe is how I thought of it. Stark. With cranky people everywhere.
Including Quinn.
I didn't know if it was his Irish blood, but Quinn did not suffer the heat with a genial attitude, as I had learned to do by long years in Vegas. He whined, going boneless on the couch in the late afternoon when the temperature hit it's high. I'd slap a cool rag on his forehead and aim a desktop fan directly at him while he made appeals for more popsicles.
I saw the want of winter in him, saw it clear, and wondered from which parent he'd gotten his storm.
Danny's visits slowed to once or twice a month, or less; the lack of air conditioning turning my bungalow into a suffocating hut where open windows and spinning fans did little to ease the swelter. He'd invited me to his condo and I'd declined.
Bettie brought over a kiddie pool, which we blew up and placed in the shade of the sycamore. We lounged under its lush canopy, alternately splashing and wilting in plastic lawn chairs. Devin showed up more often, being on summer break, and he would join us in the pool, his size making water stream over the side. He'd strip down to a wife-beater, but always left his jeans on, letting them get soaked, the heavy material pulling at his belt and exposing more of his boxer shorts.
Quinn used plastic buckets to pour water over Devin's head, and then squealed with delight when Devin shook it off like a dog, his chin-length hair flapping and sending drops wild.
We drank lemonade out of a margarita pitcher I'd gotten as a wedding gift a million years ago. I sliced summer fruit into the defrosted mix and set it up on a mosaic-topped folding table I'd found on clearance at Pier One.
Sometimes Jeanie wandered back to the bungalow from the main house and sat with us a bit before I had to leave for my shift. A tall girl with the perpetually long hair of an equestrienne, she wore riding boots even in summer. But she'd occasionally peel them off in order to stick her bare feet into the cool water.
She had a shy smile to match Devin's, and I think if he hadn't still been in high school, her having graduated in June, there might have been something to spark there. I caught the occasional prolonged glance from both of them, but only when the other wasn't watching.
She'd be starting at U.C. Davis soon, following both her parents into veterinary medicine.
On the nights Bettie and I didn't work together, she too could be caught lingering after I left and that made me feel an incredible lightness of soul. My house was a place people congregated. It was a place people wanted to be. There was music and laughter. Camaraderie.
I was proud. Of myself.
August heralded the return of the bell that rang hourly in the distance and Devin's visits were limited to afternoons when he stopped by after being released for the day.
Eleventh grade seemed to be a little easier for him, and he confessed to me that the ringleader of his enemies had been expelled in the first week and sent to a remedial school. He didn't need to hide anymore.
He'd started keeping things at my house. His guitar—or one of them—a couple of t-shirts he could change into after water fights, some school books he used to do homework at my kitchen table.
He also had nicknames for Quinn, calling him "Quinnchilada" and "Quinndolin."
It was a few days of him doing it before I said something. I had just donned my scrubs and was turning the crockpot off when I heard Devin talking to Quinn in the other room. I stuck my head around the corner and found Quinn hammering away at his xylophone while Devin peeled an orange onto a paper plate.
"What's this Quinndolin business? Is it because his hair makes him look girly?" Quinn's hair was wisping down to his shoulders and Bettie's opinion was that it needed to see some scissors. But I liked it; I knew he wouldn't have that soft baby hair forever. There was plenty of time for him to be a little boy.
"What?"
"Quinndolin. It sounds like Gwendolyn."
"No Katie. It's Quinn and Mandolin. He's my little musical bro." He looked up at me. "You're Italian, right?"
I laughed and made a buzzer sound to indicate an incorrect answer.
He squinted an eye at me. "French?"
"Mutt. American mutt."
"But where do you get that skin tone from?"
The color he was referring to was olive on a good day and sallow on a bad one. In the summer I could boast a honey glow that pulled the green undertone from my pale skin. In the winter I looked like a corpse.
"Armenian. And French. You were right there. And a bunch of other stuff. Where do you get your skin tone?"
"Choctaw. Mostly."
"Like... enough to be registered?"
"I think so, but we're not."
His skin was golden brown and soft looking, together with his near-black hair it made his blue eyes pop right out of his face.
I really looked at him in that moment.
"You're handsome Devin. I bet the girls like you."
I'd gotten used to feeling old, but when I said that, I felt ancient. I felt like my grandmother, and could see her face clear in my mind, with her bifocals cutting a sharp line through her watery red eyes. The way she'd looked when she told me I was blossoming into quite the young lady. She'd lived in New York, and I'd met her a handful of times growing up. The last time was right before my father died. I think she'd been as fascinated with my new breasts as I'd been.
I didn't normally blush, and Devin didn't either. But I could tell he felt awkward, looking down to his battered, duct-taped shoes and shrugging.
"Mmm. Older women think so."
I laughed. "Case in point." I gestured to myself. "No luck with girls your own age, then?"
"Not yet."
I tried to make amends. "Well. Teenagers are stupid. As you probably know."
He laughed, meeting my eye again. "Case in point," he said, gesturing to himself.
...
Autumn was, if possible, hotter than summer had been, with a frequent hot wind that Devin called The Diablo. It blew fierce into Sacramento, scattering garbage and working the dust up into little dervishes on the roadsides.
The kiddie pool finally popped in late September and for a few weeks we turned to water balloon fights and sprinkler dance marathons for relief.
And then, almost overnight, the leaves dropped from the trees.
A chill settled over the valley together with the smell of chimney smoke. I lit the pilot light on my furnace, the first burn making the whole house reek of fried hair and singed lint.
Halloween found my front porch decorated with no less than eight carved pumpkins all flickering magically on the steps. I'd done three, as had Bettie. Devin had done two, one bearing the Misfits name, the other the logo.
Quinn was dressed like Rowlf from the Muppets, the big dog-eared hood flopping against his back half the time. We trick or treated my neighborhood, Devin and I taking turns carrying Quinn when he wouldn't walk anymore.
Devin was dressed in his everyday clothes: slightly sagging pants and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt, but his face was painted in the style of a Dia De Los Muertos zombie.
I wore no costume. Just an old pair of jeans, a sweater, and what Jackson used to call a Mack. A brown raincoat with a plaid lining. I felt like a mom. I felt like I had two kids.
Two awesome kids.
Devin hugged me for the first time that night when I sent him home with almost all of Quinn's candy.
Devin turned sixteen in November, and I wished I could have pulled a Mr. Miagi and given him a car. Instead he got a pair of new Converse and a few shirts from Zumies. His birthday dinner was vegetarian lasagna with no veggies. Just cheese, noodles, sauce, and more cheese.
I was healing. It was taking a long time. Longer than I'd ever thought, but it was happening.
Then Bettie got lucky. Twice.
...
The mood at MRAH was somber.
We'd just put down one of my favorite dog-clients, a chocolate lab named Juliette, and I was in the back crying quietly as I loaded her limp body into the storage unit for cremation in the next day's batch, when Bettie—also crying—pulled my shoulder and spun me into a hug. As usual, I wasn't crying only for the animal I'd euthanized, but for everything. All the things I'd stored up and saved, all the hurts that won't wash away. They clung to me determinedly, and every time the levee broke I found myself trying to cry them away again.
Without knowing who he was, Bettie knew I grieved for my ex-husband and the loss of my marriage. We'd talked about it once. She'd asked where Quinn's dad was and I told her the truth.
That I didn't know.
What happened, she'd asked.
I fucked it up. I was young and dumb.
And because I think she could tell that my emotions were bubbling right under the surface, she'd tried to make me laugh instead of asking more questions.
"Still are."
And that was probably true.
But hopefully, getting less dumb as quickly as I was getting less young.
After pulling away from our hug she left for her break, going out back to smoke mentholated cigarettes in the damp night air as I finished cleaning up.
I was just wiping the last spritz of bleach solution off the table in the exam room when I heard a high pitched squeal. I looked up to see Bettie rebounding off a wall—she caromed into me, a smile splitting her face and making her look slightly psychotic, with tear-puffed eyes and reddened nose.
It took me a second to catch up to what she was saying, my mind too muddled to pick words out of the babble.
Won.
KRCK.
Midnight Masquerade at Sacramento Convention Center.
Tickets. Two of them. All access.
Bettie breathlessly explained that the rock station had been giving away a pair a day to the eleventh caller in the eleventh hour and she'd been trying to win all Thanksgiving weekend.
That day, Sunday, was her last shot.
She shook me, the hands gripping my shoulders as ferocious as her smile.
"It's on like gravitron!"
I looked it up when I got home. I didn't listen to KRCK and had never heard about the New Year's party the rock station held each year where twelve bands graced two stages and best costumes in three categories would each be awarded five grand.
Jackson Killian wasn't one of the performers when I agreed to go. It was a last minute switch that put him and me in the same vicinity. It was a backstage pass with a carnival mask that had us breezing by each other in a dimly lit corridor.
It was the electricity that had always, always existed between us that made my costume irrelevant.
...
I was Milady De Winter. I felt exquisite for the first time in a long time. Bettie was D'Artagnan, complete with fake mustache and a feather in her hat. Our costumes were raided from Treasure Chest Theater where Bettie's mom volunteered as seamstress.
The pale peach dress was ornate but not heavy, and Bettie had it altered to fall off my shoulder on one side to reveal a fleur-de-lys temporary tattoo we'd ordered off Amazon. A black domino covered half my face, my shoulder length bob curled into spirals that were nice and tight at the start of the night but after dancing and darting between people, dashing outside and in, they were frizzing into a big messy halo.
The night was electric, despite my quiet scheming of how I could somehow ditch Bettie and get out of there before Jackson's set. Maybe a fake bout of diarrhea or a need for fresh air that resulted in my not being able to get back in. I wasn't sure, but at nine thirty I was starting to get a little anxious despite the very solid buzz I had going.
Because I absolutely could not watch Jackson perform. Heck, I couldn't even look at internet pictures of him.
We'd heard the line-up change announced on KRCK in the car on the way downtown. Bettie swore at the radio—"No fucking way!"—and then fist pumped with both hands. I reached over and grabbed the wheel.
"Jackson! Fucking... Killian!"
My blood was busy puddling into the Mary Jane's I wore. Away from my heart and my head, my enthusiasm for this night and the get-up I was wearing, and the giddiness provided by the shots of vodka I'd already done, all of it slipping away from me.
I shook it off. What were the odds?
Very good, actually. The odds were good. Perfect, in fact.
Equipment was being swapped out on the small stage when Bettie grabbed me by the crook of my arm; not telling me where we were headed but somehow I knew it was another trip to see how close we could get to Jackson Killian's dressing room. I hadn't been able to avoid accompanying her each time, and had even shrugged it off, knowing that we wouldn't get that close. The passes slung about our necks got us as far as the catering tables, private bars and backstage bathrooms, but not past the burly bull-necked security guards that stood blocking the double doors marked private that separated the contest-winning rabble from the performers.
Twice we'd been back there and been stopped; at one point we'd seen someone who might—maybe—have been Adam Levine, and that had given her hope. She just knew we could catch Jackson coming from his dressing room if we timed it right.
And she did.
My emotions were awful and tangled. But I went with her.
Young and dumb, indeed.
Bettie was killing time chatting with Chuck Mack-Truck, one of KRCK's schtick-personalities—a big guy with a small spade goatee—as he manned one of the black-draped promotions tables. I stood watching, listening, fingers skimming buttons and bumper stickers, but not taking any.
I was pulling a complimentary bottle of Aquafina out of a tub when I saw him pushing through the heavy slate doors. Sweet smile, swaggery saunter, a goatee framing his lips, dirty blond hair pulled back into its ponytail. The feel of that hair, thick and coarse under my hands came back to me in a blood-freezing rush.
James.
I stammered something to Bettie about the bathroom and took off in the opposite direction, my hand squeezing the cold plastic bottle as I blindly maneuvered around Lara Croft, Captain America, and something anime with pink hair and very little clothing. I slid past some security guards, hoping their bulk would blot me out of James' line of sight. I heard Betina yell, "Kibbles!"
But I ignored it. I knew who would push through those doors after James. And I had to get away. I had to hide.
It was unreasoning. That fear. But it was my master, my heart thudding in my ears.
But I was going the wrong way.
Jackson Killian wasn't on James' heels. He was right in front of me. Not twenty paces from me and heading in my direction.
I kept walking. I reasoned that he wouldn't know me.
Anonymous amongst the myriad costumed concert goers; hidden by my mask and unusual hairstyle, disguised, in plain sight under the dim, dying fluorescent lighting and the absolute improbability of my being backstage.
Besides, he wasn't walking alone. A slim slip of a girl kept pace with him, willowy and long legged, and they seemed involved in whatever they were talking about. All I needed to do was swish right by them and turn the corner. Then I could find Bettie.
And tell her... something. That I had to vomit.
The distance between us closing, my heart hammering, I told myself not to stare as we passed each other.
But I hadn't seen him in so long.
His eyes met mine and narrowed, his step stuttered, ever so slightly. I could almost hear the buzz of my own blood in my veins.
I gave him a curt nod—something I hoped looked disinterested and polite—and then I was past him, gaining the corner and turning it. I pressed my back to the wall and slid down, knees gone weak under my weight. I gulped air and tried to rationalize away the astonished look of recognition on his face.
I tipped my head back, pressing the crown of my head to the concrete block wall and listening to the dulled sounds of music trickling in from the main stage.
I peeked around the side of the wall. Light from the banquet area silhouetted him as he met James and stopped. Beyond them I could see the purple feather marking Bettie's hat and I selfishly prayed that she wouldn't be able to get close to him. Either that, or maybe he wouldn't associate the two of us.
But he did.
From my seat, no longer peering around the corner, I heard his deep voice ask, "Hey, are you with Milady?"
Bettie's response. "Oh my god, you're Jackson Killian."
James, chuckling. "Not tonight. Tonight, apparently, he's Athos."
Shit.
Jackson. "You saw her?"
"I did. When she ran from me. Now don't be getting me wrong. Many a woman might have cause to run from me. But that one. That one I remember."
I could hear their footsteps as they headed towards where I sat. Three pairs, the tapping growing louder as they turned the corner.
I looked up.
At Jackson, James, and a very mystified D'Artagnon. Her mustache was coming unglued on one side, and I couldn't look away from her eyes. Big and blue and suggesting a whole lot of swear words I would hear later.
"Milady?" James extended a hand to help me to my feet and I took it, the calloused palm oddly comforting.
"Thank you."
I was afraid to look at Jackson; in the corner of my eye, he looked angry. But really, Bettie's expression was making me feel unbearably guilty, and James wasn't much better. I faced him. My ex-husband.
He looked older. I guess I probably did too.
"I didn't know you'd be here." It was all I had by way of explanation. Because really. What the fuck was I doing there? Backstage was his domain. It's somewhere I should know better than to be.
"Can you...?" He lifted his arm, making a gesture at his eye and I understood. He wanted me to take off my mask. I tried to pull it free, but the cord was tangled in my hair. I rested it back over my eyes.
He stepped forward, fingers finding the edge of the mask and pulling it from my face, setting it against my forehead. I could feel the makeup smeared from ear to ear; probably my eyes were red from it. I wanted to wipe at them, but there was no way that wouldn't make it worse.
He peered into my eyes, his gaze shifting back and forth, down to my mouth and up to my hairline. I felt like I could see his whole face at once, his expression one of near bewilderment.
But not anger—not a trace. In fact, he was almost smiling.
"Jackson! Set starting now. Come!" The willowy blonde, her tone impervious, her accent outrageous, demanding from the end of the hall.
We just stared at each other. There were tiny lines around his eyes, and his hair was short. Really short on the sides. His t-shirt was old and worn, with a small tear in the seam at his shoulder. A shirt I'd never seen. That was weird to me. He owned things that were old and well broken in, and I predated them.
"Jackson!"
He didn't turn, just tilted his head in her direction. "They can wait two minutes."
She groaned, exasperated, and flopped herself against the wall, pulling her cell phone from her back pocket.
"You disappeared. I mean, you're not on Facebook anymore. Or Vegas. Or... anywhere."
"I–" I shook my head. "I–yeah. I'm not there anymore."
"And you live here now? In Sacramento?"
I nodded.
"Not by yourself?"
An odd question. "Well, I–"
"Mr. Killian. We have a schedule to keep." The voice came from down the hall, a big guy with a big mustache and a big clipboard.
"I have to go," he said to me.
I nodded. "I know."
"Kit–"
He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he gestured to James. A deal with it gesture, and I wondered if it meant for him to get rid of me. Or what.
And then he was walking away, his boots squeaking on the linoleum. My dress felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I let my breath out, pressing my palm to my stomach, butterflies still battering the inside as if trapped in a bottle. James twisted his cap around, his face concerned.
"What are you doing here?"
I had no idea.
"He's been trying to find you, you know?"
That confused me. "Why?" And what I meant was... why, when Carolyn knew exactly where I was.
"To apologize for one."
I sighed. "He doesn't need to apologize. You tell him that. We're fine."
James looked at me speculatively, maybe the same way I was looking at him. "You might be. He isn't. Hasn't been. I mean... he's doing all right enough. Now."
Bettie pressed her fingers to her lips, gasping. Her voice a barely there thing when she spoke. "Quinn. Jackson Quinn Killian. Kibs, oh my god, Kate. Is Jackson Killian... I mean, is Quinn...?"
James looked sideways at Bettie, tilting his head and smirking. "I guess she doesn't know Para Pacem is about you?"
Bettie looked at me like she'd never seen me before, and I gave her a slight shake of the head. I would never be free.
And James, putting the pieces together faster than he should have. "So. You have a kid? Why didn't you tell him, Kit?"
"Don't call me that," I snapped.
"Sorry. He calls you that; it's how I think of you."
I sagged back against the wall, Bettie still looking at me with fingers over her mouth. "Go watch the show Bits. I don't want you to miss it."
"I think I should stay. Here with you. You look like you need me." But she wanted to go. I could tell. And I wanted her to. I needed to be alone.
"I'm fine. Really. Go." I made a little shooing gesture and she laughed. Maybe relieved.
"I have to get out there," James said, turning to Bettie with a little dip of the head. "I'll walk you."
As they left, chatting quietly, a feeling grabbed me. All I wanted was to be home. To be with Quinn. I felt very. Very. Far from him. Too far.
But at least I got out of watching the performance.