Page 8 of Lust

Chapter 4

November 27th

Aaron

Wallsofoleanderbusheswhiz past as I speed along the Sacramento streets. A sense of purpose turns the gears in my mind, and the knowledge that I’m about to have everything I’ve ever wanted sends a high rushing through my veins.

‘The nicest friend a girl could possibly wish for.’ That’s what Ruby called me all those many years ago. Well, I’m about to show her just how nice a friend can be when he has an unlimited bank account, unlimited time, and a raging hard-on with her name on it.

Praying I escaped the family luncheon quickly enough, I ease back into the mall parking lot. The cars of evening shoppers crowd the lot now, even though it’s the middle of the week. But I still find Ruby’s SUV right where I left it, and a nearby parking spot provides a perfect vantage point to observe the side door where she’ll likely exit the building.

Even though my Maserati is a rental, I’ve already stocked the glove box with spiral-bound notebooks. Turning the radio to a classical station, I pull one out and relax into my seat.

What we know

1. Ruby works at this crappy department store

2. Day shift, at least on Wednesdays

3. Silver Honda CRV, license 1KLR487

4. Someone made her cry today, and that asshole is going to pay. Scratch that. First, he’s going to suffer, and then he’s going to suffer some more, and then he’s going to wish he had never been born.

Pen gliding over the small sheet of lined paper, I barely notice a flash of color at the side door. Long blonde waves hang like a curtain down to her waist, catching the rays of the setting sun. For a few seconds, Ruby looks like a beam of light and my breath catches in my chest. Then she passes under the shadow of a large sycamore tree, and she’s human again. The growing dusk etches lines around her mouth and eyes, lines that whisper of worries and heartache and hard work. Lines that I will do my damnedest to erase.

She slips into her vehicle, adjusts herself behind the wheel, and then pauses, as if frozen. Is something in her life so bad that she’s hesitant to even go home?

My blood boils, and my hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening under the strain. The sound of grinding teeth drowns out my thoughts.

Deep breath. You can’t go to her yet. Just follow. Find out where she lives. Find out who’s hurting her. Then swoop in and sweep her off her feet. She’s not ready for you yet.

Ruby sighs. The headlights of the car turn on and the engine purrs into action. Headlights off, I follow from a distance, promising myself that tomorrow I’ll trade in this distinctive convertible. No more than two days per vehicle. And all from different locations.

As we approach the first light, I stifle the urge to pull up next to Ruby. Soon enough. Once I know where she lives, I’ll see as much of her as I want. What better time to try out the new surveillance equipment for Arrow headquarters? A violin sonata by Debussy soars through my speakers. I turn up the volume. The soothing melody of the strings wreaths around me, and I float along the roadway like I’m sailing on a cloud.

Another car merges between us, and I slow down and nearly miss her turn into a residential neighborhood. Without bothering to signal, I whip around the bend.

Modest one-story homes on small, well-groomed lots line the streets. One or two have seasonal decorations: wreaths of fake fall leaves on front doors, a row of wrought iron turkeys marching along the edge of a lawn, and then, up ahead, a ridiculously oversized vinyl slice of pumpkin pie, topped with an enormous dollop of whipped cream.

Okay, I was starting to think this was a sweet little neighborhood and that maybe being middle class wasn’t as awful as it had always seemed. But I have standards, and they absolutely do not include inflatable lawn decorations, which populate their own circle of hell.

As I contemplate which knife I’d use to puncture this monstrosity, Ruby pulls into the driveway. Of the house with the piece of pie. Right next to a jacked up lime green Chevy pickup truck. There has to be an explanation. My Ruby would never, not in ten million years, approve of such a hideous thing in front of her home.

Her shoulders slump as she gets out of the car and shuffles to the mailbox, where she pulls out a stack of letters. So Mr. Lime Green truck doesn’t check the mail. Interesting. I hate how defeated Ruby looks as she makes her way up the walk toward her front door. But when she walks past that nasty vinyl slice of pie, she kicks it with the toe of her shoe. I smile. Ruby hates it just as much as I do.

Lingering out of sight behind a neighbor’s boxy shrubbery, I nearly miss the name on the mailbox. But a last ray of sunlight catches in the silver metal letters and they suddenly glare like neon. Jackson. So that’s the name I should have been searching for all this time—Carol Jackson. No wonder I couldn’t find her. Where the fuck did it come from? And who owns that hideous truck? I don’t know anyone named Jackson, but a dreadful feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

Then he comes to the door. He no longer has the lean physique of a high school athlete. The hair that sticks out from under his baseball cap is sparse and graying. But it’s definitely him. Brent motherfucking Michelson.

For a few seconds, the raucous noises of a cafeteria fill my ears, drowning out all rational thought. My shoulders tense and my hands clutch the steering wheel, as though bracing a lunch tray against imminent assault.

But my attention is drawn back to the house. The greeting between Ruby and Brent does not look joyful. He looms in the doorway and she tries to slide past him, but his bulk leaves little room. The years have not been very kind to him. Never a tall man, Brent appears to have grown sideways, and a prominent beer gut blocks Ruby’s path.

Their voices escalate. I roll down my window.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong, Carol.”