19. Rickie
Rickie
A couple hours later, after I’ve lost twenty bucks at darts—to Daphne—she drives us home, as promised.
I’m in the back seat, pleasantly drunk, trying not to stare at the back of her kissable neck.
Beside me, Dylan reaches forward to put his hand at the juncture of Chastity’s shoulder and neck. He strokes her skin with his finger.
I spent the past few months giving him a lot of shit for how handsy they are all the time. But it’s sweet, and I’d happily eat my words if I could have what they have.
In Dylan’s shoes, I’d be the same way. I’d claim my girl, and let the whole world know that Daphne was mine. If she wouldn’t give me a death glare and accuse me of acting like a macho asshole, that is.
She would, though. And that would make me smile just the same.
I’ve got it bad.
When we get back to the farm, Daphne notes the presence of her mother’s car. “I hope her date went well.”
“You don’t sound like you hope so,” her brother snickers.
“Shut up. I’m trying.”
Dylan laughs. And the minute he and Chastity are out of the truck, they go skipping toward the bunkhouse, probably to have loud sex all night. In fact, Dylan actually sweeps Chastity up and carries her toward the bunkhouse, while she shrieks in protest. They bounce off into the darkness together.
I catch Daphne watching them. So I brace my arms and bend my knees like I’m about to scoop her up, too.
“No,” she says, holding out her palm to stop me.
I straighten up, laughing. “Kidding. I wouldn’t dare.”
“Good.”
“Apparently I like my women prickly.”
“Apparently you do,” she says, opening the kitchen door and marching inside.
* * *
Daphne goes to greet her mother, and I slink upstairs alone. I take a turn in the shower, and by the time I’m done, she’s in her room with the door shut.
She would have left it open if she wanted my company. So I go into my room and lock the door. As one does.
I lay down in bed and listen as Daphne’s door opens. She takes her turn in the bathroom and then returns to her room.
No knock on my door, either. I hug my pillow and wonder what she’s doing. She's probably propped up in bed, reading something brainy.
If I were lying next to her, I’d pick up a book, too. I’d put a hand on her smooth knee, and stroke her skin with one hand while I turned pages with the other.
Daphne is smart, and very invested in her work. So it's possible she wouldn't toss the book aside and jump me. I'd have to work for it. I'd let my hand roam her long legs. Then I'd close my book and roll over to drop kisses on her smooth stomach...
And, yup. One of us is horny already.
Ah well.
As a distraction, I haul my laptop onto the bed and run a few internet searches. After all, I have some new material to work with. USTSA yacht club party .
Nothing.
Boathouse party . USTSA Christmas party . Bash . Open Weekend .
Nope. Nothing.
I’ve tried some of these terms before, of course. But until now I never had the clue of "boathouse" before.
Still, I try a couple dozen permutations and come up empty every time. If this party was a secret, or unsanctioned, people probably knew better than to label their selfies. What I need are names.
I try my roommate's name. I’ve put him into a dozen internet searches before. Paul White boathouse party . As usual, I get some hits for a country music singer with a similar name. This time I also turn up a French impressionist painting called The Boating Party .
Not helpful.
So I plug in the one other Academy name I can think of—Daphne's horrible ex. Reardon Halsey Christmas party.
I sit up straight as the screen fills with images. I choose a thumbnail at random, and get a photo of four guys in tuxes holding champagne flutes.
I scan the faces, and bam . My gut clenches in recognition of the guy on the end. I know that face. I hate that face.
Holy shit.
Honestly, I need to look away from the screen for a moment and take a slow breath. My pulse is elevated, and I actually feel nauseated.
My eyes flit back to the screen, though, because l've waited so long for this. A clue. Any clue to those lost months at the Academy.
In spite of my pounding heart, I force myself to catalogue his features. He has shiny dark hair and brown eyes. He has an aquiline nose, and a strong but well-proportioned jaw. He's an objectively handsome prepster.
And the internet is full of photos of him.
His dad is a senator, and they're frequently photographed together.
Daddy Halsey went to USTSA too, I note. There's a short piece in the Hartford Courant from four years ago, announcing the senator's son's acceptance into the venerable yet secretive program.
“Training the next generation of officers, innovators and spies,” it reads.
Or not, apparently. Because this guy turned up at Harkness with Daphne.
Sure enough, when I search for Halsey at Harkness, his name comes up on that research study Daphne told me about. He's still listed as a senior research assistant, whatever that is.
I search him six ways to Sunday, and it’s midnight by the time I realize how exhausted I am. And I'll be up at six o'clock to help Dylan in the dairy barn. I need to sleep.
But first, I make myself look at his photo one more time. It’s another party pic, although I never did find evidence of a boathouse party anywhere. Halsey attends a lot of his daddy's political soirees.
I look him right in the digitized eyes. He's smiling widely, his teeth white, his tie straight. He looks about as dangerous as a well-bred Golden Retriever.
But I know better. And when I stare into his smiling eyes, I feel nothing but cold disgust.
I get up and set the computer on Dylan's desk, and then shut out the light. Back in bed, sleep doesn’t come easily. I don't know what to do with this new information, because it really isn't information. It's just recognition. And dread.
And that's Daphne's ex? What does that even mean?
I bury my face in the pillow and try to sleep.
It works. Mostly. But sometime before dawn I become aware of a presence in the room. My eyes flip open, and the guy is right there, lying next to me in bed, staring at me. And then he smiles, like it's all a joke.
I try to lift my arms to push him off the bed, but I can't. I can't move.
He grins.
I open my mouth and howl out a tortured, strangled sound.
It’s probably my scream that wakes me up for real. I sit up fast, alone in Dylan's bed, sweat pouring off me, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.
“What the fuck was that?” I gasp into the dark.
"Rickie?" comes a sweet voice. Then there's a gentle tap on the door. "You okay?"
Yup. Daphne’s knock arrives at exactly the wrong moment. Story of my life. "I'm fine,” I call. “Bad dream."
I do not get up and let her in.
She doesn’t knock again.
* * *
I start the day in the barn with Dylan, shoveling cow shit while he does the milking. I’ll never be a farmer. I’m not half as interested as Dylan, who’s at the other end of the barn chatting up the cows as he hooks them one by one to the milking thing.
But as summer jobs go, this one is very low stress. We’ve got tunes on the radio, and after the milking I’ll be fed a huge breakfast. So it’s all good.
Even after that horrible night, I almost feel normal. But I must not look it.
“You look tired today,” Ruth Shipley says at breakfast.
“Oh, I’m good,” I insist. “Just stayed up too late watching TikTok videos.”
Daphne shoots me a curious glance. She’s probably wondering why I did some yelling in my sleep. On and off I have nightmares, usually about claustrophobia. Sometimes I dream about getting locked into a closet or a coffin. Lenore is always fascinated.
But last night is the first time I saw a face in one of my bad dreams.
And it was so vivid. I suppose I could pump Daphne for more information about Reardon Halsey. He left the Academy. I left the Academy. Maybe we did so at the same time. It could be important.
But it probably isn’t. And I hate flying the freak flag in front of Daphne. What would I even say? I Googled your ex, and his photo made me almost puke. Please pass the maple syrup . Yeah?
No.
“What’s the plan for today?” I ask instead.
Dylan drains his coffee cup. “You and Chastity are meeting Zach in the orchard for pest prevention. You’re hanging bait traps.”
“Cool, cool. So long as you don’t use me as the bait, it’s all good. I’m kind of irresistible, so…”
Everyone smiles except Daphne, who’s giving me another searching look. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s underscored with heat.
I have no idea when she and I are finally going to get together. I just know that when it happens, it’s going to be spectacular.