Justify - Trent (Kimball Brothers #2) Page 5

  “Yeah, we were a few grades apart, though.”

  “Oh?” my ma turns with the spoon she’s using to stir raised in the air. “How many?”

  “Just two, ma,” I say, patting the pocket of my jacket for my chewing tobacco. I think better of it, though, when Melissa gives me a disapproving glare.

  She’s never liked the stuff; not one bit.

  Small talk fills the empty spaces where actual conversation should be, but I don’t mind. I’d rather my family keep it light hearted after everything that’s transpired. I meet eyes with Alma and she smiles at me.

  She looks better, more awake than day’s prior, although still traumatized. And why wouldn’t she be? What happened to her isn’t the kind of thing a girl—or, I s’pose a woman—can get over with just a few nights rest.

  “Your brother and Cassandra will be leaving tomorrow,” my ma says, changing the subject.

  “Yeah,” Cassandra says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m a wedding photographer. I have a few jobs this coming week. And your brother…”

  “Has a match,” I finish for her, nodding, “yeah, uh, I know. He told me.”

  That’s a lie. Macon and I don’t tend to talk much about his shiny new career; it ain’t that I’m jealous—I’m proud of him for doing what I never could. But I still check his schedule online, making a mental note of all his fights as a sort of reminder to myself of what I passed up.

  “Right.” Cassandra nods.

  “What about you, honey,” my ma says, wiping her hands on her apron. She turns to look at me and smiles. “I saw Chuck in town, you know, from Triumph. He said you came in yesterday. Are you thinking of starting with them again?”

  Ha.

  I open the fridge and take out a beer, cracking the seal and taking a long drink. I offer one to Melissa but she holds up a hand and shakes her head.

  “Nah,” I say, sliding back into my chair, “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  Alma’s voice catches me off guard.

  “Uh, I don’t know.” I shrug, cracking my knuckles. “It ain’t really my thing anymore. My heart ain’t in it like Macon’s is.”

  Melissa reaches forward and caresses my neck, running her fingers through my hair. “You’re good at it, though.”

  Maybe.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, attempting to change the subject, “anyway, did y’all know that Melissa is officially a nurse? She just finished her residency at Logan Memorial…”

  Melissa blushes. “It’s no big deal, really…” she starts, but I hold up a finger to stop her.

  “It’s absolutely a big deal. She’s a real, board certified nurse now. Not just a medical assistant.”

  My ma beams. “That’s lovely, sweetheart. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”

  Shit.

  Melissa lowers her eyes and wrings her hands. “Uh…they passed away, actually,” she says, “last year, in a car accident.”

  Silence fills the room.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cassandra says. Alma nods along with her.

  “That’s awful,” my ma manages, gripping Melissa by the shoulder, “I’m very sorry, honey, my condolences.”

  “It’s alright,” Melissa says, sitting up straighter in her chair. She hands the bowl of peeled potatoes over to my ma, who begins slicing them and transferring them into the pot on the stove. “I’m managing.”

  “What about Cain?” Alma speaks up out of nowhere. Every eye in the room sets on her. A redness surfaces in her cheeks and she lowers her eyes. “I mean…how is he? I remember seeing him at the bonfire…”

  She’s rambling; it’s something she only ever does when she’s nervous.

  “You what?” Melissa says, “I don’t think so, honey, Cain was working that night…”

  I swallow the burning coil in my throat. “No,” I say with a nod, “let her finish.”

  Alma shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything…I’m sorry…”

  “No,” Melissa says, “what is it?”

  “I just…I remember he was talking to a bunch of guys from Triumph…”

  She meets eyes with me and her voice cracks. “I just remembered this, Trent. I’m sorry. It might not mean anything, but…Cain was definitely there. I know it. And the guy he was talking to the most was Joaquin.”

  Chapter 10

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Trent.” Melissa paces in the dark. Her hair falls loose from the bun secured to the top of her head. “Are you actually trying to imply that my son somehow had something to do with what happened to Alma?”

  Her words carry a bite. I shrug, shifting on my feet. “Look, baby, I’m not implying anything…it’s just…it’s weird isn’t it? That Cain was there that night and never mentioned it…”

  She points a finger at me. “We don’t know if that’s true.”

  “So, what, then? You think Alma’s lying?”

  “No!” she yells, throwing her arms in the air, “but I also don’t think it’s such a stretch that she might not be remembering incorrectly. You know, like she did with you? I mean come on, Trent. You’ve known Cain his entire life. You’re practically a father to him he woul—“”

  “I’m not, though,” I interrupt, dropping the butt of my smoke and stepping on it.

  Melissa furrows her brows and crosses her arms over her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “His father,” I say, keeping my voice low so that no one in the house hears me, “I’m not. Am I?”

  Melisa swallows the lump in her throat and remains quiet.

  “But Alma is my sister,” I continue, kicking dirt, “she’s blood. And Cain…look, I’m sorry, Liss, but I think there’s a lot you don’t know about the kid. I mean—do you know how often I catch him smoking? Or bumming my beer?”

  “So, what? Because a seventeen year old boy behaves a little badly, that automatically means he’s somehow capable of…”

  She shakes her head and laughs stoically. “I can’t even say it.”

  “Well maybe you should try,” I bite back, “look the kid has always had it out for me. It just seems like a little too much of a coincidence that he would be talking nice with Joaquin shortly before he fuckin’ raped my sister…”

  Melissa slaps me across the face before I can finish my sentence. I stumble back, taken off guard.

  “Take me home,” she demands, crossing the yard to my truck, “This really wasn’t a good idea. I should have known better.”

  I try to reach out to her, to stop her, but she slaps my hand away. She's neat, dainty, polished in all the right ways, but this one thing has always stood out about her—the fire in her eyes when she’s upset is smoldering.

  “Don’t,” she warns, “this is over.”

  I can feel it, too. The emptiness in her tone, highlighting the end of something we always kind of knew would never work. Because this is how it is with us. How it’s always been, A few brief moments of euphoria and comfort, followed by an inevitable downfall and a hasty amends. But this is different.

  This is as personal as it can get; how can I be with her if Cain had anything to do with what happened to Alma?

  “We need to take a break.”

  I clench my jaw and force a nod, climbing in the truck after her and starting it up.

  Her words are further proof of what I already know; love dwindles eventually, like a flame without any kerosene. Stability is all Melissa clings to. And maybe this conversation was all the proof she needed that she wouldn’t find it with me.

  * * *

  Neon lights glow onto my windshield.

  I’m parked in the back of the Rhino, watching disillusioned men enter and broken women come and go. I don’t even know why I’m here. Or maybe I do.

  I climb out when I see her.

  Elvira. Or Evelyn—the person she becomes once she’s outside those doors.

  She’s wearing a black trench coat but she’s still in her heels—the plastic, ga
udy kind that only strippers wear. She stops in her tracks when she sees me.

  “Should I ask what you’re doing here?” She smiles small and inconspicuously.

  I shrug, pulling a menthol from the pack she throws at me and lighting it with the end of hers. “No,” I say, exhaling a stream of smoke from my lungs, “I’d actually kind of prefer it if you didn’t.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket; it’s one of my brothers, I’m sure, or maybe my mother—wanting to know why Melissa and I bailed on dinner. I’ll find away to explain it to her later. I’ll apologize. But right now…

  “Do you need a ride?” I say, nodding at Evelyn, “I can give you one…”

  She thinks it over for a few moments, running a manicured hand through her hair and pulling it up into a ponytail. “Sure.”

  * * *

  “So, tell me about yourself,” she says with a nod, reaching forward to change the radio station to something less static-y.

  It couldn’t be more vague of a question. There are a lot of ways I could describe myself. For starters, I’m no cheater but I’ve cheated. I’m no liar but I’ve lied. And I’ve never been able to turn my back on ugly truths.

  Even when it’s necessary.

  It’s why I’m here instead of at Melissa’s—hearing Cain’s side of the story. She’ll never see the wrong he does. Not in the way that other people do.

  “Do we ever truly know anybody?”

  Evelyn frowns and gives me a funny look. I pat the pocket of my jacket for my chewing tobacco, but she snatches it from my hands before I can get any.

  “That stuff is gross,” she says, tossing it out the window. She waves a chipped fingernail in my face. “It’s a bad habit.”

  I laugh. “Maybe,” I say, opting for another one of her smokes instead. She’s as different from Melissa as she can possibly get, but they at least have that dislike in common.

  “In regards to your question, though,” she continues, looking out the window, “I don’t know. I’d like to think you can…know someone—I mean.”

  We’re parked on the side of the road in a barely developed residential cul-de-sac, the headlights acting as our only source of light. She told me to pull over here—that she’d walk the rest of the way, and I didn’t question her on it. It seems like the kind of thing that is pretty typical in her career of choice—not wanting random men to know where she lays her head.

  “I’m starting to think it’s not possible,” I say, clearing my throat. My phone vibrates in my pocket again and I pull it out, silencing it.

  Evelyn eyes it and nods. “Your wife?” she questions.

  I chuckle. “No, I ain’t married. I uh…I don’t even have a girlfriend. Not anymore. Actually I don’t know if I ever did. We never attached any kind of label to it.”

  “Is that why you don’t think it’s possible?” The inner workings of a Spanish accent surface in her tone; she’s anything if not curious. “Knowing someone—because of her?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, not because of her,” I say, “she’s one of the only people I ever felt like I really, truly knew. We just don’t fit right. We’re two pieces of different puzzles, you know? It can’t work no matter how much we force it.”

  Evelyn laughs and ashes her smoke. “Poetic,” she says, then, “oh! I love this song!”

  She turns the radio up louder and a melody I don’t recognize, not by a long shot, pours through the speakers. I admire her as she sings along, mouthing the words without even trying. She’s almost childlike, an odd quality for someone in her profession to possess—but intriguing all the same.

  “What about you?” I say with a nod when the song comes to an end. “Tell me about yourself. Why do you strip?”

  Evelyn’s laugh is intoxicating. “Why does any woman?” she retorts, flicking the butt of her smoke out the window. “It’s not exactly every little girls dream. But I needed the money, you know? I don’t want to be here forever.” She waves her hand over the lackluster scenery. “I want to be an someone, like my mother.”

  She smiles a bright smile. Her teeth are perfect—a true rarity—pearly white and perfectly straight. “When she was my age, she was in telenovas, Columbian soap operas.” She sighs, biting down on her bottom lip. “She always told me, ‘Evelyn, I could have been a star, but I had you.’”

  Her smile dissipates as the final words leave her mouth. “I feel like I owe it to her, you know?”

  “What?” I question, “becoming an actress?”

  Evelyn shakes her head. “Maybe not an actress, but at least becoming something…I don’t know. Something more than a stripper…”

  “Have you lived in Guthrie your entire life?”

  “No,” she says, not elaborating.

  A lapse of silence falls over us. I rub the back of my neck, contemplating what to do next. Luckily, Evelyn decides for me. She’s on my lap in seconds, working her small hands beneath the fabric of my shirt.

  I was just trying to be a gentleman by offering to take her home. I wasn’t expecting to get anything out of it. But maybe this is good. Maybe this is just the distraction that I need.

  “Jesus,” she whispers against my neck, feeling my chest, “you’re ripped. What, are you some kind of athlete?”

  I laugh, pushing her hair out of her face. “No…not exactly.”

  It’s electrifying—the way her full lips move against mine. I start to stop her, to tell her that we can’t, or rather—that we shouldn’t, but passion has a way of overriding all other emotions.

  “Hold on,” I tell her when she starts to go to work on my belt buckle. I reach for the glove compartment and open it, pulling out a condom, then, I lower the seat, sending us both flying backwards.

  Evelyn bumps her head against mine and giggles. “It’s alright,” she says, lifting her arms to pull off her shirt.

  Her skin is tan in that year-round way, and I figure it must be the Spanish in her. There’s a belly ring dangling from her navel—another tacky accessory for her job, but it works for her. I trail a finger up her abdomen, from where the band of her panties is peeking above her skirt, all the way up to her translucent bra.

  Her nipples are rock hard, peeking their way through the fabric. I suck in a sharp breath and massage the pads of my thumbs against each one, watching as her eyelids flutter shut.

  “Fuck,” she whispers, gyrating above me.

  I’m rock hard, pulsating against her inner thigh. She tears off my shirt and removes my belt next, concentrating on my jeans. I lift my buttocks up beneath her, allowing her to ease them off. The only pieces of fabric that separate us now are my briefs and her skirt and barely-there underwear.

  “You don’t do this a lot, do you?” she whispers, trailing a finger down my abdomen. “You’re loyal, aren’t you?”

  I swallow hard, groaning as she takes my girth in her hands. I’m not sure how she managed to gauge that from me after knowing me for all of a couple hours, but it’s true nonetheless. I was loyal to Melissa—always—whether there was a label attached to what we had or not.

  Evelyn has that look in her eye; that decisive look women get when they want something—or someone. I’m not sure what it is about me that has her aching, but she’s staring at me like I’m everything and it makes my heart thump a little harder in my chest.

  “What makes you think you know me?” I question as she trails a finger down my jaw.

  “I never said I did.”

  She’s seen too much. She can’t be much older than twenty—twenty-three at most; but there’s a weight behind her eyes that I find myself wanting to lift, as contrived as it sounds.

  I take the lead, pulling her against me. There are bruises on her body; faint marks the size of fingerprints.

  “I’ll ignore yours if you ignore mine.” She smiles, tracing her pointer finger over a purple mark the size of a quarter on my arm. I hadn’t even noticed it was there. She wraps her arms around me and I turn, pressing her small body beneath mine on the seat. I hover abov
e her, resting most of my weight on my elbows.

  She twines her fingers in mine and pushes my hair out of my face, commenting that I could use a haircut.

  And I swear—I fuckin’ swear—it feels like I’ve known her my entire life. That’s the gift she gives me. Temporary relief. Something to cling to when everything else feels like it went to shit.

  I hold her down with one hand, cupping her chin with the other. Our eyes meet and she smiles at me, small and nervous; a smile unlike the one she gives to her customers.

  And just like that, we erupt—in a frenzy of torn fabric and hot hands, words that don’t need to be spoken and lips and tongues that move in synch.

  She was right.

  It’s poetic.

  Chapter 11

  “Home sweet home,” she says, propping open the door with an angled heel.

  Her house—if it can even be called that—is dark and messy, void of any real pieces of furniture. There’s a mattress on the floor in one corner of the room, near a window, and a small table and a chair in the other. The entire place reeks of booze and smoke. There’s a pile of paper on the floor, disjointed and spread out beside a small guitar.

  “You there?” She waves a hand in front of my face and laughs.

  “Yeah,” I say, “sorry, I uh, got distracted.”

  She folds her arms over her chest and her crop top rides up her stomach. “Not what you were expecting?”

  I’ve never been a liar. “No,” I say, “it ain’t that bad, though, I’ve seen worse.”

  She laughs and narrows her dark eyes at me, pursuing her lips. “You don’t have to lie,” she says, taking a seat on the ground and folding her legs up under herself. “I get it, it’s shit. Everyone has to start somewhere, though, right?”

  Her “somewhere” is an illegal one-room apartment built above the garage of an otherwise nice house. I ask her why here, why she doesn’t just rent a place closer to her job, but she shrugs and doesn’t answer.

  She picks up the guitar and strums it, playing something from memory. And she’s good—damn good. Better, at least, than any of my efforts as a teenager. I take a seat beside her and hold up a piece of paper to the light.