Thorn in My Side - Karin Slaughter Page 0,1
suffered a stroke. Maybe it was both. In the bright xenon lights of the parking lot, I could see she wasn’t as young or attractive as the disco lighting would lead one to believe. The black slinky dress looked worn and ill-fitting. A Pepé Le Pew part in her hair showed she was a couple of weeks late for her dye job. Her skinny arms were more like sticks. Sticks with scabs. I glanced at Kirk. She’d obviously been on the needle at some point. Of course, you didn’t often find a drug-free lady who was willing to go to a stranger’s car outside a run-down club.
“Let’s go.” Kirk got into the van. I nearly whacked my head on the roof as I followed. He was moving fast, anxious to get this over with. He pulled the latch and swiveled the club seat around to face the woman. She hadn’t moved except to start nervously rubbing her arms. Kirk pulled out his wallet and counted out two twenties and a five. “Are we doing this or not?”
She glanced inside the van as if she expected to find plastic and duct tape.
Finally, she looked at me. “It’s extra if he watches.”
“He won’t watch.” Kirk gave me a sideways glance. “Beat it, kiddo.”
I took the headphones out of the console and plugged in the jack to the entertainment system. Kirk waved the money in the air. He didn’t even bother to fan the bills. They were limp and moist from being in his pocket. They lolled over the back of his hand like a Labrador’s tongue.
He said, “Let’s go, sweetheart. Either you want the money or not.”
She looked back and forth between us, weighing the dangers, the odds. Common sense lost out to the lure of cash. The girl climbed up into the van. She stood in the open doorway staring at us both. “This is some freaky shit.”
“Let’s just get on with it.” Kirk waited for her to take another step inside, and then he key-fobbed the van door closed.
The interior lights faded to a soft glow. We’d paid extra to have mood lighting installed, which I’d thought was for ambience, but Kirk had wanted it because it made the women he picked up look much less pitiful and grotesque. At least this one was thin. The big girls made it impossible for all three of us to safely maneuver around. I’d nearly gotten a concussion three weeks ago from slamming my head into the roof of the car.
Kirk fumbled with his buttons, saying, “Ground rules. No saying my name—”
“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “I don’t remember your name.”
I told her, “I’m Wayne, and this is—”
Kirk punched me in the shoulder. “Shut up.” He went back to the buttons. “Just keep to my side,” he instructed. “Only kiss me. Only look at me. And don’t touch the asshole.”
She balked. “Jesus, he’s right there. He can still hear you.”
“No,” Kirk said. “I mean it literally. Don’t touch the asshole. That’s his.”
“His…?”
“The asshole, the left ball, left nipple. Anything on the left side. Don’t touch it.”
“What about…” Her throat worked like an anaconda swallowing a Chevelle. “You know. What about…”
I felt Kirk’s chest rise and fall with visible irritation. “There’s only one dick, sweetheart. Believe me, he’d never get laid if there were two.”
She coughed out a noise that was somewhere between fascination and relief. “How long’ve y’all been…”
“Conjoined twins?” My chest rose and fell along with Kirk’s this time as we both filled each of our lungs with air.
Of all the questions we got asked, this was by far the most ludicrous. I’d long gotten accustomed to the frightened stares and looks of horror. We had a mirror at home. I knew what a strange sight we made walking down the street. Two heads. One set of legs. One set of arms. We grew out of each other’s torsos like spliced branches on an apple tree. Kirk had two shoulders while I had one and a half. We shared one stomach, one heart, one set of intestines, one spleen, liver, pancreas. Our arms moved independently for the most part. We both controlled the legs, but neither of us could explain how we walked in tandem—nor could modern medicine, which we’d given up on years ago. As far as I could tell, it was a matter of wills and whose was the strongest. Which usually meant Kirk got his way. He itched, and I scratched. He farted, and I said, “Excuse me.”