Burn: A Novel Read online

  Reaching her battered blue Dodge, she unlocked it and pulled hard on the door handle—the driver’s door tended to stick. After initially resisting her effort, the door suddenly gave way with a creak of rusty hinges, and Jenner staggered back. Controlling her irritation, she got in, slammed the door, and stuck the key in the ignition. The engine fired right up. The Blue Goose didn’t look like much, but it was reliable, and that was all she asked. At least she had something she could depend on, even if it was just a beat up, rusty car.

  The 7-Eleven nearest her duplex was a few blocks out of her way, but certainly close enough that Dylan could have gone there with very little effort. The shop was brightly lit, and the parking lot packed despite the late hour. Jenner wedged the Dodge into a space that was as tight as too-small panty hose, but what the heck; what did another ding matter in a car that was practically one big ding?

  She shoved her shoulder against the door and, sure enough, it swung open with too much force and banged the car beside her. Wincing, she contorted herself so she could slide through the small opening, and rubbed her finger over the ding in the other car in an effort to smooth it out—not that the owner was likely to notice one more, considering this car was almost as bad as the Goose.

  The combined smells of exhaust, gasoline, and hot asphalt hit her in the face. Typical summer smell, and all in all she kind of liked the smell of gasoline. Kerosene, too. Weird, but not something she wasted time worrying about.

  The bottoms of her sneakers stuck to the softened tar of the parking lot as she trudged across it. The air-conditioned coolness of the convenience store washed around her as soon as she made it through the door. She wanted to stand for a moment, just absorbing the cold air. The heat wave that was cooking the Chicago area seemed to suck every bit of endurance out of her. Damn, she was tired. She wanted to be at home where she could kick the shoes off her aching feet, peel out of her sweaty jeans and shirt, and flop across the bed so the breeze from the ceiling fan could blow across her mostly naked body. Instead, she was buying Dylan’s beer. So who was the loser? Dylan, or herself?

  She glanced at the curiously long line at the counter, and had an aha! moment as suddenly it clicked: lottery. She had to be tired, not to have realized immediately what was going on. A huge jackpot had been building, and the drawing was tomorrow night. That was why the parking lot was full and there was such a long line at the counter. Every now and then she played the numbers, and a couple of times she’d won a few bucks, but for the most part she didn’t bother. Tonight, though … hell, why not? Let Dylan wait for his beer.

  She grabbed a six-pack, then joined the queue, which wound between two aisles to the back of the store, then snaked halfway up another aisle. She passed the time by examining prices, looking at candy, and trying to decide which numbers to pick. She was sandwiched between two guys, both of whom smelled like stale beer and equally stale sweat, and who both kept making occasional comments to her, which she mostly ignored. Did she have some invisible sign on her head that said, “All losers apply here”?

  Then again, maybe they just wanted her beer. On a hot summer night, beer had to rate pretty high—maybe even higher than a tired Clairol blonde in an ugly blue shirt with the words “Harvest Meat Packing” embroidered on the pocket. Though when she was on the job she had to wear coveralls and a plastic head-cover, the packing company required that their employees wear the company shirts to and from home, figuring they’d get free advertising. The employees even had to buy the damn shirts—but at least, if she quit, she got to keep the shirts … until she threw them away the first chance she had.

  On the other hand, these two bozos maybe looked at the shirt and thought, “Hey, she has a job! And beer!” She hated to think this shirt could be a come-on.

  Eventually, the slow shuffle of the line brought her to the counter. She plunked down her money and bought three tickets, mainly because three was supposed to be a lucky number. She chose three sets of numbers at random, thinking of birthdays, telephone numbers, addresses, and anything else that occurred to her. Then, dropping the tickets into her bag, she trudged back out to her car. The vehicle that had been parked beside her was gone, and a pickup truck had taken its place. The truck was parked so close there was no way she could get the driver’s side door open. Muttering a curse under her breath, she unlocked the passenger door and managed to wiggle in, then she had to climb over the console. At least she was skinny and limber, otherwise she’d never have managed.

  Her cell phone rang as she was wedging herself under the steering wheel. She jumped, banged her head, and cursed again. This time it wasn’t under her breath. Digging out the phone, she punched the button and snapped, “What?”

  “What’s taking you so long?” Dylan demanded.

  “Buying the damn beer, that’s what’s taking so long. There was a line.”

  “Well, hurry it up, will ya?”

  “On my way.” If her tone was grim, he completely missed that little detail, but then, Dylan seemed to miss a lot of signals.

  Each half of the duplex where she lived had its own tiny drive, a luxury she appreciated as she didn’t have to park on the street. At least, normally she didn’t. Tonight, Dylan’s Mustang was in her drive, so she had to hunt for a space. By the time she found one, trudged back to her place—where every light was on—she was all but breathing fire.

  Sure enough, when she went in, the first thing she saw was Dylan sprawled on her couch, his work boots propped on her coffee table, a wrestling show blaring on her television. “Hey, babe,” said Dylan with a smile as he got up, half his attention remaining on the television. He took the six-pack from her hand and fished one out of the carton. “Shit, it isn’t cold.”

  She watched as he picked up the opener he’d already fetched from the kitchen—so he wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of waiting for his brew—popped the top off the bottle, and lifted the beer to his mouth. He dropped the top onto the coffee table, and settled himself back on the couch.

  “How about putting the others in the fridge on your way to change clothes,” he suggested. She always changed clothes as soon as she got home because she couldn’t stand wearing the ugly polyester shirt one second longer than necessary.

  “Sure thing,” she said, picking up the carton. She told him how much the beer was.

  He gaped at her. “Huh?”

  “The beer.” She kept her voice very even. “You said you’d pay me for it.”

  “Oh, yeah. I didn’t bring any money with me. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

  Ding. She heard the little bell that said he’d passed the point of no return. She waited for a sense of being set free, but instead all she felt was tired. “Don’t bother,” she said. “Just get out, and don’t come back.”

  “Huh?” he said again. Evidently he was having problems with his hearing, along with his problems thinking. Dylan was good-looking—very good-looking—but not nearly good-looking enough to make up for all his shortcomings. Okay so she’d wasted almost four months of her life on him; she’d know better next time. The first sign of mooching, and the guy was out.

  “Get out. We’re done. You’ve mooched off me for the last time.” She opened the door and stood there, waiting for him to leave.

  He heaved himself to his feet, arranging his face in the charming smile that had blinded her at first. “Babe, you’re just tired—”

  “Damn straight. Tired of you. Come on.” She made shooing motions. “Out.”

  “Jen, come on—”

  “No. That was it. You had no intention of paying for the beer, and I have no intention of giving you another chance.”

  “If it meant that much to you, all you had to do was say so. You don’t have to go off the deep end,” he charged, the charming smile vanishing and a scowl taking its place.

  “Yes, I do. I like the deep end. The water’s nice and cold there. Out.”

  “We can work—”

  “No, we can’t, Dylan. This was your last chance.�€