Her eyes still closed, she reached up behind her back and undid the clasp. Her bra fell to the floor between us. I circled her breasts with the ice cube, drawing closer to her swollen nipples with each pass. Stella arched her back and let out a soft moan. There was a gasp when the ice finally touched her there. Melting now, less than half the size it was when I first started. I reached behind me and took another from the cup. I knelt and ran this one up from her left foot, up her ankle, to her inner thigh. The heat there was unbearable, and it took every ounce of willpower not to drop the ice and use my hand instead. I brought the ice up, over the silky material of her soft, white panties, over her belly, up her chest. Then, standing again, I followed the contours of her neck to her lips. She licked tenderly at the little bit of ice remaining, her tongue so close to my finger, but I didn’t let go, not until she parted her lips and took it in.
Then it was Stella who reached behind her back. She took out a pair of the latex gloves from the box on the counter and handed them to me, then she put on a pair herself. Her eyes opened then, big and bright and full of life as she caressed my cheek, the line of my jaw.
We’d spend the next several hours like that, exploring each other’s bodies with gloved hands. Carefully touching and not touching. A choreographed dance. And it was utterly amazing. When we finally fell asleep, our borrowed sheet between our naked bodies, heads resting just far enough apart, we were both exhausted, and I finally felt complete.
20
Stack wasn’t sure what time he fell asleep, but the pain in his neck told him it had been a while ago. The six empty beer cans on the table at his side seemed to second the thought, and the incredible need to empty his bladder backed up both.
He rocked forward in his chair and looked out the window.
Three white panel vans across the street, right where he left them.
Night gave way to the muted gray light of a Pittsburgh morning.
The vans were still there. He didn’t see anyone inside.
Maybe he was being paranoid. McPherson across the street owned a plumbing company. Maybe he bought some new vans and simply parked them in front of his house. Of course, that didn’t explain why they ran, though. Each time he went outside, all the vans started up and quickly disappeared down the road only to return a short while later. He’d lost track of how many times he went out there.
They might have left because he was waving a gun around. Drunk guy with a gun, he’d leave too. It didn’t explain why they came back. It didn’t explain why nobody called the cops. At this point, he’d probably welcome the boys in blue on an unexpected visit. He’d check the phone again on the way back from emptying his bladder, but he was fairly certain he’d find the line was still dead, as it had been every other time he picked it up.
The magnum sat on his rickety table next to the empty cans of Iron City. Stack scooped up the gun and stood. His body ached, and he tried to steady himself by holding the chair, either the beer or sudden movement causing him to feel a little lightheaded for a moment. His vision went white, then cleared.
Gun in hand, the floorboards creaked under his weight as he crossed the house to the small bathroom under the stairs.
He was midstream when he heard another floorboard creak, this one from above on the second floor.
21
I woke to the sound of scratching.
My mind woke before my body, and in my head I pictured a plump mouse inside one of the walls of the house we had borrowed from Cammie Brotherton, his tiny paws digging away at the backside of the drywall in a frantic attempt at escape, dust bellowing out around him, piling up at his tiny pink feet. Freedom on the other side of that wall, but he had to dig.
My eyes snapped open.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows.
Stella and I had slept in the kitchen, a small space between the counter and the island, protected on both sides by cabinets and counters. She was still sleeping. I could hear her soft breaths beside me.
Scratching.
Still, the scratching. Coming from one of the bedrooms.
I got up quietly and went through the pile of clothes on the table, tugged on my jeans. I found the shotgun on the counter where I left it the night before and gently picked it up, careful not to make a sound. I knew it was loaded and primed. I flicked off the safety with my index finger and started down the short hall.
I found him in the pink room.
A man of about five-ten, with long, tangled brown hair riddled with gray tucked up under a hat that reminded me of the kind worn by hunters, fur-lined with flaps over the ears. He wore dirty jeans, brown boots, and a blue flannel shirt.
He had brought his own gun, some kind of hunting rifle. The weapon was propped up in the corner of the room.
This man had his back to me, feverishly scribbling on the walls with a thick, black marker.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
David Pickford is a beautiful man.
