Chapter 16
CRUTCH
One week.
I’ve known Luella Margaret Hill for exactly one week today. I’ve kissed Luella Margaret Hill three times. And I’ve wanted to kiss Luella Margaret Hill three-thousand times.
I didn’t see her on Wednesday or Thursday, and I was moping around like a love-sick puppy. Neutered and pitiful, I couldn’t even think straight.
She called me at the garage to say she had a student council meeting on Wednesday night and dinner with Detective Marcum and his wife on Thursday night. She asked if I wanted her to come to the homestead Friday night—tonight. I nearly jumped through the damn phone I was so excited.
But there are so many things wrong with this picture. It’s like looking at a portrait of the Mona Lisa, only she’s wearing a tube top and smoking from a bong.
First: Lulu’s on student council. That’s a sentence I never fathomed myself saying. I’m a man dating a high school student. I know that’s over-simplifying it, but technically it’s true. Lulu is right; she’s more mature than almost anyone I know. But she’s still seventeen. And that’s part of the reason we have only kissed. Normally, I have sex as soon as the girl is willing and ready, and she makes the first move. But not with Lulu. Even if she were eighteen, it would be too soon. I’m only the second guy she’s ever kissed. Which, by the way, still pisses me off. I should’ve been the first. And let’s not forget that I made the first move. I kissed her. I started this chain reaction. But now, I’m no different than my brother’s customers…I’m addicted. I can’t do more than kiss her right now. Anything else, would lead to a new addiction. And neither of us need that. I’m already fighting a losing battle when it comes to keeping my lips off hers.
Second: I’m an asshole. That seems to be a recurring theme as of late. I’m making Lulu do all the work. She drives thirty minutes one way to see me. I don’t even know where she lives. She’s called me at the garage, obviously having looked up the phone number on the Internet since I didn’t give it to her. I don’t even have her cell number. That all ends tonight. Tonight, I get her number and her address. Plus, I know where she goes to school. I can be one of those guys who leaves a note for his girl on her windshield. Can’t I? The thought is cheesy enough to make me want to throw up, but I vow to do that at some point. Leave a note; not throw up.
Third: I’m really selfish. When Lulu told me she had supper with Detective Marcum, one thing went through my head. Please don’t tell him about the drugs. I’m not na?ve enough to worry about my brother. He made his bed a long time ago. He can wallow in its filth all day long as far as I’m concerned. But Lulu is a different story. For once in my life, I’m terrified. Terrified of her getting hurt, of Trey finding out she told someone about his business and him coming after her. And I can only assume the supplier is a hundred times worse than Trey.
These spinning thoughts are interrupted when I hear her tires crunch down the driveway. Jumping out of her SUV, she tries not to smile when she sees me. Really, she does. She tries to hide behind her hair. She tries to bite her lip. But eventually she gives up, granting me the gift of her radiant smile.
I’m stepping off the patio to greet her when she thrusts a large white bag in my hand, catching me by surprise. “I brought dinner! Are you hungry?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, she hurries over to one of the chairs and quickly pushes a table in front of her, setting her own bag down and pulling out Styrofoam containers.
“Hell, Lulu, I thought you were smiling because you were excited to see me, but I think you’re more excited to eat.”
“Of course, I’m excited to see you. I’m here, aren’t I? But I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starving. I had a phone call during lunch and missed the whole thing.”
I grab a water and beer from the cooler in my truck. By the time I set the water bottle down beside her, she’s tearing through a sandwich like a rabid animal. A very messy sandwich. Pulling a chair next to her, I chuckle, watching a large streak of grease slip between her fingers and run down her wrist. “Is that a Philly cheesesteak sandwich?”
She quickly wipes her hands—taking extra care with the healing bruise and scrape on her left hand—and takes a drink of water. “Mmm-hmm. Yours is too. I hope you like them.”
“I do.” When I don’t unpack my bag, she glances over at me, shrugging her hands in question. “I didn’t peg you for a Philly cheesesteak kind of girl.”
“What did you peg me as?” She stuffs a bite that’s too big into her mouth and tries to politely find a way to chew. She can’t. She eventually covers her mouth with her hand so she can chew open-mouthed without me seeing the food.
“Salad. A chicken Caesar salad when you wanna get crazy.”
“I am that kind of girl. That’s what I order when I go out with my parents or with my classmates. That’s what they expect a girl like me to order. So, I do.”
I don’t like that comment. I don’t like it one bit at all. “I don’t know how you do it. I know I couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend to be someone I’m not just to make others happy.”
I guess that’s a little bit of a lie. I actually pretend all the time. I pretend I’m not poor white trash with every woman I meet. Every woman except Lulu.
She puts her sandwich down, staring at me like I’ve gone stark-raving mad. “I don’t do it for them.”
“Who do you do it for?”
“I do it for me.”
I furrow my brow. “You pretend to be a different person, pretend to act a certain way, and pretend to like certain things all for your own benefit?”
She nods.
“How? How does that benefit you?”
“Because they don’t deserve to see the real me. None of them do.”
Words choke in my throat, constricting my voice. “But I do?”
This time she doesn’t try to hide her smile. “Of course, you do, Ry.”
***
It’s been a great night.
I’ve had Lulu tonight way more than I’ve had Ella. Each time we’re together, I see more of the real her, and after her admission at dinner, I can’t wait to see every part of the real Lulu. Learn everything about her. She’s my new favorite subject, and I’m gonna become the most eager student there ever was. A damn Nobel Prize Laureate of what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, and what makes her angry.
And especially what makes her moan the same way she does when she’s ready for me to kiss her.
It’s official. I’ve apparently grown a vagina and become a love-struck woman in one week’s time.
Actually, let’s not call it love-struck. Let’s call it ‘like-struck’.
She’s engrossed in another crime documentary and absentmindedly reaches behind her and starts rubbing her neck again.
That’s it. I’m taking her to a doctor.
“Lulu, scoot closer.” We’re sitting on the loveseat, and I reach around, pushing her hips closer to mine. Without getting her permission, I push her head forward and wrap her glossy hair around my fist.
“Ry?”
That’s when I see it. A pink, puffy scar on the back of her neck. I reach out, brushing it with my calloused fingertips. When her body shudders, my dick jumps in my jeans. “You have a scar.”
“Yes. How did you know? Was I touching it again?”
“Again?”
“I apparently do it a lot. Carrie is trying to break me of the habit.”
“What happened?” Releasing her hair, I pull her back against my shoulder. Now that’s she sitting right next to me, there’s no need for her to move away.
Accepting the new position, she snuggles closer to my side. The winter air is mild tonight, and the fire alone provides just the right amount of warmth. “Carrie burnt me with a curling iron when we were little. We were playing beauty pageant and she was trying to curl my hair. Burnt my hair right off too. I had to get three inches cut off. My mom was furious. She actually made me wear a hairpiece for our Christmas card pictures.”
“Tell me about them. Your parents.”
“They’re horrible people.”
I open my mouth to placate her concern.
“Ry, don’t. Some things in life can’t be denied. This is one of those things. My parents are not nice people.”
She grabs my hand and starts tracing my work scars with her fingertips. It makes the back of my throat tickle. It feels nice. Real nice.
“My dad came from a good household. Nice, hard-working, middle-class parents. I know he did because my Uncle Ray turned out to be such a nice guy. You would love him, by the way. But he always said that something was different about Dad. Like something boiling beneath the surface. This urge to think he was better than everyone around him, that the world owed him something because he was handsome and smart. You’ve heard of gold-digging women? Well, I guess you could call my dad a gold-digging man. According to my Aunt Teresa, my dad’s whole goal while at college was to find a rich girl to hook up with. He moved far away from home, went to the University of Texas.
“Well, guess who went there too? Miss Susan Oglesby. Debutante and granddaughter of a dead oil tycoon. Dad swept her off her feet. All Mom saw was a handsome, pre-med student who could one day give her the prestige she craved. All Dad saw was a good-looking, future-housewife set to inherit millions on her twenty-second birthday. They got married right after graduation and Dad had all of his medical school expenses paid by his young, rich, newlywed wife.”
She frowns at a small scar on my thumb—one caused by a socket wrench— and plants a small kiss on it, trying to make it better, even though the injury is over two years old. “I guess it really made my grandmother angry, my mom’s mom. Apparently, she thought my father was below the desired, old-money pedigree that my mother deserved. She disowned my mom. She lives in some fancy retirement village in Florida. I’ve never even met her.
“Anyway, Dad became a general surgeon, came back here, and used Mom’s money to build his own practice. It’s that huge building down by the river. Hill, Vann, and Weaver Surgical Arts and Concepts. My dad is the general surgeon, Phillip Vann is the orthopedic, and Mary Ann Weaver is the cardio-thoracic. They each have their own floor. There’s a pharmacy there too, and a therapy place. So, now Dad makes his own millions. And Mom is his trophy-wife.
“His favorite hobby is what Carrie and I call sex-spin-the-wheel. He just spins the wheel to see which lucky mistress will have him in her bed that night. Mom’s favorite hobby is what Carrie and I call jealousy-spin-the wheel. She just spins the wheel to see what lucky item she’s gonna buy that day to try and make other people jealous. A car, an outfit, a diamond ring? The possibilities are endless.”
She sits up straight, adjusting to look me in the eyes. I like it when she looks me in the eyes. “Do you know that I technically don’t live with my parents?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s be real. My parents didn’t really want kids. They just had us because that’s what they were supposed to do. They actually couldn’t stand having us around, making noise, playing, interrupting them. They built a whole other wing to the house, connected by a breezeway. A long breezeway. We—me and Carrie—have a kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a laundry room. Separate entrance, separate driveway.”
She fakes an English accent and tosses her hand in the air, faking high elegance. “The Children’s Wing.” She giggles at herself. “Anyway, that’s when they hired Janine. We needed someone to live with us. Carrie and I had one room, and Janine had the other. And that’s when I stopped trying. At five years old, I knew it was pointless to win my parents’ love. I was their thing . Their pretty little daughter to dress up and show off only when the need arose, but nothing more. So, that’s what they get. I give them what they want and keep the real stuff in here.” She points to her heart.
Her eyes cloud with thought and her brow furrows. “They made everything about Carrie’s disappearance about them. I don’t know if you’ve watched any of the interviews they did, but they’re painful. They’ve used my sister’s case to give them some sort of celebrity status. The last time they went to New York City to do the circuit of news shows, they actually requested a fully stocked dressing room, a Presidential suite at the Plaza, and a personal driver.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Except they sound like exquisitely perfect douchebags.
She shakes her head, clearing her eyes. “Ry, you mentioned marshmallows? Can we cook them?”
When she told me that she had never had campfire s’mores before, I nearly fell out of my chair. I stopped at the dollar store after leaving work today and bought graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars.
I stare at her, watching her innocent eyes widen in delight when I nod. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be with me. She’s too good. Too perfect. I need to tell her to leave. Right now.
That’s what I need to do.
So, what do I do?
I make a s’more for My Lulu. Because we all know I do what I shouldn’t.