Burn Down the Night (Everything I Left Unsaid #3)- Molly O'Keefe Page 0,65
twitches lengthened. And the time between her panicky breaths lengthened. And then there was a long slow sigh.
“One day,” she whispered.
“One day.”
“What the hell are you going to do with a boat?” she finally asked and I laughed, even though it hurt my ribs.
—
We didn’t eat anything and around noon, another little old woman came out, wearing—of all things a T-shirt with Santa on a beach—and carrying a blender full of margaritas and poured each of us enough to fill a red plastic cup to the brim.
“Beer margaritas,” she said with a sly wink. “The beer makes it less sweet.”
Joan and I both thanked her and accepted her congratulations on our marriage.
“Jeez,” Joan said after a sip. “Mrs. Claus makes them strong.”
She did indeed.
And by the bottom of the cup, drunk Joan became a pleasure to watch, particularly when she jumped into the pool and then got out, that white bikini see-through in places.
I meant what I told her last night. I was all ready to invest in this woman’s drama. Fucking her would burn us both down. But funny how after a beer margarita on an empty stomach, burning down the night didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.
A while later, another woman came out with a plate full of little hot dogs with toothpicks. Another woman brought something called a cheeseball that tasted better than it looked.
There was cheap champagne and a few beers.
Each of them congratulated us on our marriage.
“Jeez,” Joan said again, rolling the mini hot dog in the cheeseball, which because I was a little buzzed on the super strong margarita and the beer, was the best idea I’d ever seen. “How do we upgrade the snacks into cash?”
“How do we get another round?” I asked, draining the last of the beer from my bottle.
One of the units on the second floor with open windows, unfortunately, started to play music. Loud.
“It’s like our wedding reception!” Joan said, her eyes wide. She did a little shimmy, which I appreciated, but I closed my eyes and tilted my face to the sun.
“I don’t dance.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
The music was awful. Country crap. But beside me, Joan started humming and then singing.
“Really?” I asked.
She was grinning, her eyes closed, her body swaying. “Oh, so really. I will not hear anything against the Misters Brooks and Dunn. It’s my wedding reception. Let me be happy.” Another song came on and Joan gave a little squeal.
Clapped her hands like she’d won a carnival prize.
I wondered, for just a second, what Joan would be like if she allowed herself to be happy. Not just while she was drunk beside a pool. But every day.
Because despite all her thick skin and “take your best shot” attitude, the woman had some serious joy.
And that I was seeing it—and she was letting me—felt like she was showing me a secret.
Like the tattoo under my arm.
Like a fleeting and rare second chance. And I had a cold, hard knot in my stomach that had everything to do with Joan and her sister and this rescue mission she was on that had every possibility of turning into a suicide mission.
I waited until the music was over because I didn’t want to ruin that joy of hers. But when the station flipped to a commercial, I got serious.
“Joan?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to do when you find out where Lagan is? What is your plan?”
“Get my sister back.”
“How, though? Guns blazing, flashing your fake badges?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not a total idiot. Lagan was letting Jennifer make supply runs with Gwen and I thought I’d watch the camp and when I saw them leave for town, I’d follow them. Convince her and Gwen to come with me when they were away from the camp.”
“What if they don’t agree?”
“She will, Jennifer will agree. She’ll come with me.” It was more prayer than surety, but I knew better than to say it.
“And this Gwen woman?”
“I’ll have the gun. I can force her, and then we’ll go to the cops.”
“What about the pills?”
“Jesus, Max. You got a better idea?”
That was the problem. I didn’t.
“I have to believe this will work. You get that, right?”
Yeah, I got it. But this wasn’t a plan. It was a wish, and sooner or later she had to see that.
I ached to touch her. To put my hand against the velvet skin of her shoulder. I ached for it so badly I could feel it like a memory.