Test (A Gentry Generations Story) Page 3

  “I can’t,” I said, gently pushing her arms down while her pretty eyes clouded with confusion in a way that made me feel bad.

  “You want to go for a walk then?” she asked, biting the corner of her lip, and I felt even worse because she was probably just a friendly girl who liked having fun. She obviously liked me and wanted me to like her back.

  How could I explain to her that I craved the taste of the beer on her lips more than I craved the feel of my dick in her body? It was all tied up together for me, sex and alcohol, had been ever since I was fifteen and got wasted on a some stolen whiskey before fucking one of my classmates beneath the high school bleachers where we’d been partying with a dozen friends. We didn’t get caught so we went back the next night and did it all again.

  “I should go,” I told Heidi and I hoped my voice sounded as apologetic as I felt. “I’ve got to work early in the morning.”

  That was a lie. I had tomorrow off.

  Heidi nodded and started backing away.

  “Well,” she said, “it was good seeing you, Derek.”

  I was glad she didn’t offer her number and suggest that we should hook up another time. She knew what was up.

  “It was good seeing you too,” I said. “Have a nice night.”

  I left Heidi out on the balcony and hoped she’d find a better guy than me. Kellan was still occupied with his lady friends but at least he’d found a seat on the living room couch now. One of them sat in his lap and encouraged him to store his right hand halfway up her skirt. Since I couldn’t get his attention without screaming across the room I sent him a text to let him know I was leaving. He checked his phone, frowned, and then looked up, seeking me out. I waved and gave him a small salute to let him know everything was cool. He watched me head toward the door and in my last glimpse of him I thought I saw relief in his expression.

  Returning to the empty apartment solved nothing. I tried to play Warmonger’s Quest. I tried to watch a show about building motorcycles. But I still felt electrified by the party energy and I had no way to release that feeling. There was nothing to drink in the apartment. I’d been good about avoiding alcoholic purchases over the last two months. Kel had almost a year to go before he turned twenty-one so he couldn’t buy liquor legally yet and anyway he was never a hard drinker. He certainly wouldn’t keep any alcohol around where I could find it now.

  I searched for a snack to fend off the gnawing hunger that I knew damn well had nothing to do with food. But anything worth eating had already been eaten by that perpetually ravenous brother of mine. At one point I opened up a kitchen drawer, forgetting I’d stored my sobriety coin in there earlier. It glared at me like an accusing eye. I closed the drawer.

  My keys were in my hand before the idea had fully formed in my head. Kel would probably be at the party for a while. Two miles away there was a convenience store that carried a variety of food items. The fact that it also carried a variety of alcohol couldn’t be helped. I could go grab an armful of snacks; chips and cookies and maybe some of those beef jerky sticks that smelled like trash but tasted great. Kellan would appreciate that. And if I picked up a bottle or two while I was there it didn’t have to be the end of the world. I’d keep the booze in my room and only drink it if I needed to. I might need to before the night was over but that was okay. A situation like that would just include me and some bottles and maybe a quick spank of the monkey to some amateur porn to soothe my neglected dick. I’d be drinking alone and I sure as fuck wouldn’t be driving afterwards and I wouldn’t be using someone for a few minutes of selfish pleasure. I’d be sober by morning and no one would ever need to know.

  I wouldn’t even need to admit it out loud.

  I snatched my keys and took off before I could change my mind.

  Chapter Three

  Paige

  The interior of a cheap convenience store could be either cheerful or depressing, depending on your state of mind. The clerk was a portly mustached guy who was stacking tins of chewing tobacco in a locked case behind the front counter when I walked in. He turned around long enough to offer a perfunctory hello and then returned to his uneven stacking.

  I wasn’t the only shopper in the store. A couple who looked like they’d fit in at the party I’d left earlier approached the counter with two six packs of beer. The girl giggled, slobbering on the neck of the guy before whipping out her phone to snap a selfie because apparently the world needed a photo of her engaging in commerce at the Super Q convenience store, probably with some earth shattering caption like, ‘Me and BAE buying beer. LMAO.’

  But then when the guy produced his wallet to pay for the beer, his other arm snaked possessively around the girl’s waist and I realized the pang eating at me was envy. I turned away from the happy couple to go find my cheese pretzels because jealousy was an uncomfortable feeling to wallow in.

  A young woman in purple scrubs and wearing a hospital id badge roamed the aisles while carrying a sleeping toddler in one arm and a plastic shopping basket slung over the other. When she found something she was looking for she had to set the basket down, reach for the product and deposit it in the basket on the floor before moving on. She’d probably just come from work before picking up her kid and she looked exhausted but gave me a polite nod as we passed each other.

  The door chime sounded and I heard the college duo giggle their way out of the store. A second later I heard the clerk mutter another tired greeting to whoever had walked in at the same time BAE and Company had walked out. I happened to look up when the newcomer passed my aisle and I nearly gasped with surprise. I was glad I didn’t. He probably would have heard me. But really, what the hell were the odds of seeing Derek Gentry twice in the same night? His name hadn’t even crossed my mind in at least a year and now he was rapidly turning into a fixture in my life.

  Derek didn’t seem to notice me, scanning the aisle with a quick glance and then moving on when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

  “Fuck my life,” I grumbled a moment later when I discovered that the store was out of the particular flavor of cheese-flavored pretzel sticks I was craving. All I could find were the sour cream-flavored variety. They weren’t ideal but they would have to do. I snatched the last two bags off the shelf and proceeded to the next aisle. Maybe some chocolate should be on the menu too, something with those crunchy crackles.

  The aisle wasn’t empty. A man stood in the middle, staring at the rows of colorful junk food displays. He was probably in his mid forties and looked like he was either at the end of a bad day or in the middle of a bad life. His faded black clothes were peppered with unidentifiable stains and his grizzled face looked unwashed and sprayed with either sores or acne scars. He looked at me and his mouth twisted into a slight grin though his eyes were hooded and unfocused.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” I answered. I noted the trembling of his dirty hands and the way his body swayed. A half buried sense of familiarity clicked in my brain. I’d seen this same affliction before, many years ago, but I remembered it well. A feeling of pity rose within me at the same time as a wretched sense of desolation. Drug withdrawals were brutal.

  Still, I saw no reason to be afraid. I was in a brightly lit store with other people and the man had given no hint that he meant harm to me or anyone else. Besides, if he was like the person in my memory then he was really only his own worst enemy.

  The man turned back to the displays. He rubbed at his face and his voice was soft and slurred. “I need some candy.”

  “Okay,” I said to be polite. However I took a step back, deciding to shop in another aisle until Candy Man was finished. He didn’t seem dangerous but there was something uncomfortable about being so close to him.

  The mother and child were up front, the little boy sleeping on the woman’s shoulder as a tattered stuffed rabbit dangled from his small hand while his mother examined a display of sunglasses. When I craned my neck I could see the top of Derek Gentry’s head over by the refrigerated be
verages, most likely searching out his next dose of alcohol.

  Maybe some of the party recklessness had seeped into my skin because I was suddenly considering the idea of approaching him. The idea faded almost as quickly as it surfaced. I couldn’t think of any common ground I might possibly have with Derek Gentry. No doubt he would feel the same way.

  The clerk had moved on from his tobacco stacking and was now straightening the magazine rack. It surprised me to see so many magazines were still being sold. My grandmother kept up subscriptions to all the beauty and glamor magazines until she died but I hadn’t opened one in years and didn’t know anyone who did. When I was little I loved looking through the glossy pages, especially on the rare occasions when my mother allowed me to sit on her lap so we could flip through them together. By the time she was finished handling them they were invariably dotted with coffee stains and cigarette burns, which made my grandma grit her teeth and mutter. My mother and grandmother did not have a good relationship. But in the years that came later I’d lost count of the times I’d walked in on my grandmother sobbing while holding her daughter’s sweet sixteen photo.

  I lingered in front of a postcard rack and touched one featuring an aerial shot of Arizona State University. I wondered if the kind of people who sent postcards were the same ones who still bought magazines.

  “I NEED CANDY!”

  The deep voice startled me, partly because of its sudden proximity and partly because its tone had altered so much. No longer did he sound like a vaguely confused wanderer. He sounded furious.

  Candy Man stood six feet away and his attention was focused on me. He had one hand behind his back and took a step forward. I took a step backwards and collided with the postcard rack. His eyes were on fire, the smoldering pupils surrounded by bloodshot whites. My opinion of him changed completely. I’d been very wrong to assume he wasn’t dangerous.

  In a deceptively quick motion he reached out and grabbed my arm. At the same time I now saw what he’d been hiding behind his back. It was the kind of knife my grandfather used to keep with his hunting gear.

  “Candy,” he insisted, his strong fingers digging into my arm.

  “No!” I yelled, trying to shake loose, my horrified eyes fastened to the dingy blade of the knife. Even a dull blade could cut deep.

  The woman who was holding her child screamed.

  “Hey,” shouted the clerk, huffing over to us. He wagged a finger and got right in Candy Man’s face. “Don’t you do that. You let her go.”

  My attacker’s attention was briefly diverted and I felt the pressure of his grip loosen enough to wrestle away. The momentum caused me to stagger back and trip over the troublesome postcard rack. I landed with a thud on my ass and watched in horror as the next few seconds unfolded.

  “Now get out of here,” the clerk demanded, still red-faced and wagging his finger as if a modest scolding could possibly stop a strung out madman. It was a valiant stand. And it cost him. Candy Man lurched forward and stabbed the clerk twice in the stomach. There was another scream. It might have been mine. This couldn’t be real. Two minutes ago I was shopping for cheese pretzels and now I was in the midst of terrifying violence.

  The clerk dropped to his knees, his face pale, his hands covering the wounds on his belly as his blood spread over his white shirt. Candy Man loomed over the clerk with his bloodied knife and time itself seemed to pause. I saw the young mother clutching her child and frantically looking between the glass door that promised an escape and the murderous maniac who stood in her way. The clerk let out a low moan and took his hand away from his belly, gazing down with apparent puzzlement at his own bright red blood. I suddenly remembered the existence of Derek Gentry and wondered where he’d gone. Probably escaped out the back door if he was smart.

  The clerk kept moaning but when he tried to scuttle away he just left a bloody handprint on the linoleum floor and collapsed. Candy Man raised the knife and seemed to be on the verge of bringing it down on the helpless body of the unconscious man.

  “Don’t!” I screamed and tried to recall tips from a self defense martial arts class I’d enrolled in last year. I’d stopped going after only two sessions. WHY DID I STOP GOING?

  But when I screamed Candy Man took new notice of me fumbling to get off the floor. He crouched down in order to show me his terrible knife.

  “Candy,” he rasped and grinned, full of rotten teeth and pure evil. He smelled like the foulest kind of decay and he was close, so awfully close.

  And then he was gone.

  Derek Gentry hadn’t escaped out a back exit after all. He’d landed a kick to Candy Man’s body that sent the man flying right into the wall beside the door. It was a shame he missed the glass because it probably would have cut him to ribbons. Instead he bounced off the wall, landed on the floor, and then with the horrible strength known to crazed junkies and the criminally insane, he got up again.

  Derek had positioned himself in front of both me and the store clerk so that Candy Man would have to go through him first. Wielding a bottle of whiskey like the hammer of Thor, he cut loose with a powerful swing and caught Candy Man square on the shoulder. There was shattering glass, a howl of irate pain and a shower of whiskey that somehow found me from ten feet away.

  A normal man would have dropped to the floor from such a crushing blow but there was something abnormal powering the man who held the knife. And unfortunately, the arm Derek had damaged was not the arm holding that knife. An instant later the knife swung wildly and slashed Derek’s arm.

  “Motherfucker!” Derek cursed but he didn’t back down. He had no other weapon at hand so he did the only thing he could. He charged. He slammed Candy Man into the wall, twice, three times, cracking the surface, toppling a tower of water bottles, and ultimately causing the knife to drop and clatter to the floor. Candy Man was issuing this unearthly constant wail now, the pain possibly starting to penetrate his altered senses. Derek showed no mercy, seized him by his stringy hair, bashing his face into the cracked wall. That was enough. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell with a thud.

  Meanwhile, the young mother was already calling 911. “Multiple stabbing victims. Please hurry.”

  The clerk moaned and tried to roll to his side while Derek remained poised to deal with the maniac who’d turned the night into a nightmare. I crawled several feet over to the clerk. My joints felt stiff and leaden, as if I’d been down on that floor for ten hours instead of ten seconds.

  “Sir?” I said, noticing that his name tag said Chris. “Chris, can you hear me?”

  “Make sure his airway is not obstructed,” cautioned the young mother and I remembered the hospital badge I’d seen her wearing. She had finished calling for help, then set her child down and grabbed a stack of cheap Arizona tourist t-shirts, which she used to put pressure on Chris’s wounds.

  Chris groaned again but his eyelids flickered and opened. “What happened?” he asked.

  “You were stabbed,” the other woman said gently. “But don’t worry. Help is on the way.”

  I heard a sick gurgling sound and looked over to see Candy Man still prone on the floor, his face a pulpy mess from connecting with the wall. Derek had grabbed an electrical cord and was using it to tie the man’s hands together in case he got any ideas about getting up again. When Derek was finished he kicked the knife away with a look of disgust. The thing spun through the broken glass and whisky puddles and landed beneath the magazine rack.

  “You’re bleeding,” I told Derek because he didn’t seem to know.

  He looked down at himself in confusion and then noticed the slash on his right forearm. It was jagged and deep enough to require quite a few stitches. He grabbed one of the Arizona shirts and wrapped it around his arm.

  “It’s okay, Noah,” said the woman who was still applying pressure to Chris’s wounds. “I’m right here.”

  The little boy, Noah, wept openly as he clung to his stuffed rabbit. He was probably around three years old, old enough to
carry memories of what happened tonight. I imagined how those memories would contain fear and horror seen through a child’s eyes, memories that would mutate over the years as he grew and tried to make sense of them. I could imagine all too well.

  Since Noah’s mother was better equipped to keep Chris from bleeding to death until help arrived I did the only thing I could think of. I moved over to the frightened child and opened my arms.

  “Shh,” I said to him. “It’ll be okay now.”

  His face crumpled and he accepted the comfort with a sob, gripping my shirt and settling into my lap. I looked up and saw Derek staring at me. And beyond him, the flashing lights of the arriving emergency vehicles that were visible through the glass doors.

  It seemed like sixty things happened at once. Police stormed in first, shouting at everyone to raise their hands. When they realized the danger was contained they relaxed and the paramedics came running in. Both Chris and Candy Man were tended by separate teams. Noah’s grateful mother gathered him out of my arms. One cop picked up the bloody knife with a gloved hand. Another cop crouched at my side and scanned my face. He appeared to be in his thirties and had a kind expression, probably someone’s dad. He gazed at me with concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No,” I said and stood up. I didn’t know where the hell I thought I was going. My mind was shrieking that I couldn’t be here anymore and I needed to go, to hide somewhere all these people couldn’t see me and throw up until I was spent and hollow.

  I made it three steps and then my shaky limbs gave out. I would have gone down like a pile of bricks if Derek hadn’t intervened. His strong arms grabbed me before I hit the floor and a sickening wave blurred my vision as I sank against him.

  “Hey,” he said and his voice was soft, gentle, as if we weren’t strangers. Maybe we weren’t, even though he probably had no idea what my name was. Maybe people who lived through terrible things together could never be strangers again.