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“I’m coming armed,” I call over my shoulder.
My heart is still pounding when I walk out of the garden, into the parking lot behind Taylor.
THE USC/ARIZONA GAME goes to commercial, and I lean back against the couch in my living room. The ceiling in this room is striped with skylights, so I’m staring up at my reflection in the glass: my arms crossed behind my head, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, so my forearms are on display. I shut my eyes and I can see my right one stretched in front of me. I can smell the grass. The dirt. The sweat. I can feel the gallop of my heart.
The game I’m watching now is recorded on DVD. It’s from the Trojans’ 2012 football season. In May, I ordered everything from 2010 forward, but I only started watching them last week.
I’m calling this game a loss for the Trojans. That’s the worst part of watching recorded games: the sense of inevitability when you can feel a loss coming. There’s no changing fate when it’s already been sealed.
And with that thought hanging around my neck, I turn the game off and reach onto the mahogany end table beside the couch. I keep a stack of post cards by the coasters where I sit my iced tea. Also a fountain pen.
Most of the time, after I pick a card and prop it on my thigh, I can’t write a word. My hand freezes. My throat feels thick, as I stare down at the paper. This time, like almost every time before it, my fingers, wrapped around the pen, are cold and still.
What can I say? I’ve got nothing for her.
Fury rises in me: sharp, then suffocating.
I crush the card—a picture of CC’s campus in autumn—in my fist and stab the pen into the couch cushion. I watch the ink spill out of it, creating a small, black cloud on the cappuccino suede.
I duck down over my lap and curl my arm around my head and take deep breaths. Now, before I lose my nerve, I grab a fresh, clean post card and try the pen’s bent tip against it.
I’m surprised it works. It’s my surprise that jars me into action, so I’m able to write a few words. Five... six... seven.
That’s all I can.
I fold the card into my back pocket, stand up, and stretch. I look at the stairs that lead from the living area up to my room. I could change clothes, but I don’t feel like trudging upstairs.
I walk into the kitchen, where I serve myself some ravioli and slam back a shake. I grab a few sticks of beef jerky for the road and a glass of sweet tea. I might be a Southern transplant, but I love this shit.
I grab my bag off the front staircase, then open the top drawer of the massive, Victorian-era table beside the stairs. I pull out a couple of notebooks, an extra calculator, and my old Calculus 1 text book. I sling the items into my bag and pull the front door shut without locking it or setting the alarm.
It’s a cool night—cool for September in Georgia. The air feels lighter than it has in months. It’s breezy on my cheeks; taunting me with all that I can’t have.
I press “unlock” on my Escalade’s key fob, climb into the front seat, and turn around so I can lean into the back. There’s a white laundry basket on the seat behind mine, filled with thick, pink fleece blankets. Manning must have dropped it off while I was watching the game.
I had to call and let him know I wouldn’t be at the trustee meeting—I dipped out early—and to bring it here instead. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he did what I asked, when I asked for it. He’s my manager of operations, and efficiency is his middle name. Actually, Manning is. He’s Adam Manning Smith—and using an alias just like I am.
I can smell what’s in the blankets as I drive. I roll the windows down, jack the heat up, and listen to The Doors. And then the Dead. And then the Stones. And then The Strokes. And then nothing.
I’m too damn edgy.
Because I need her: Cleopatra Whatley.
I can’t decide if it’s her impertinence, her blasé, or my own urge to circumvent both and make her submit to me in every way—but I ache when I imagine her in the glass-walled room upstairs.
I park in the U-shaped lot behind the Tri Gam house and carry the basket under my left arm. I’m not afraid of getting caught. Not now. I’ve lost fear.
I open the front door and climb the old ass, creaky stairs like I own the place. The “executive suite” is on the front of the second story, arranged around a rocking-chair littered balcony that juts over the first-floor porch. If my sources are correct, there’s one door that leads to the “suite,” which houses all the officers’ bedrooms. I knock twice and listen to light footfall, hoping it’s Cleo’s.
The door opens, and Milasy appears. She’s got a pretty, oval face, with deep brown eyes and glossy, straight black hair. She sees me and smiles. “Kellan. How’s it going?”
“I’m here for Cleo,” I say. My lips are caught between a smile and a smirk.
Milasy looks me over. I can see the approval on her face, followed by her curiosity. “She’s got you doing her laundry?” She seems to think this is unlikely. Then her face lights up. “Is there a puppy hidden in there?”
I decide on smirk. “Not a puppy,” I tell her.
“Okay. Well come on in.” I step inside a small but nicely adorned living area, and Milasy points to a hallway just beyond the kitchen on my right. “She’s down the hall there, on the right.”
