track of things; she’s not even scared anymore, which she knows is not right. She can’t quite put anything in context. The ceiling in front of her, for instance, appears completely different now that it is presented as a wall.
Lyle wades through dishes and towels and piles of upturned sex magazines toward them, spilling cigarette ashes as he goes. “It isn’t that I don’t give a shit,” he says, “although I don’t.”
“We need to get going,” Bobby says. “Why don’t we settle this thing?”
(Tina witnesses the pale blobs of magazine skin crumpling under Lyle’s feet, little imaginary girls.)
“You didn’t even read about that storm, I bet,” Lyle says. “Turned this fucker right over.”
“I’ve got to get to work tomorrow,” Bobby says. “I’ve got to check in by nine.”
“No, you don’t,” Lyle says, suddenly sharp. “You don’t have to be anywhere in the morning, or you wouldn’t be here in the first place. Nobody’s expecting you.” He pops the top of the tiny can and drinks the martini off on one pull, sighs, thengrins at them. “Miracles of modern technology. But I’ll go get what you came for, if y’all are in that much of a hurry.”
Lyle shuffles off through the wreckage, using a step stool to boost himself onto the wall of the back hallway, crawling along, dropping into one of the bedrooms with a heavy, booming sound. What would happen if he landed on a window?
“This place is creeping me out,” Tina whispers.
“What’s he going to do? Shoot us?” Bobby asks, annoyed. “This is like regular life. It isn’t TV, it isn’t the movies.”
TV
The perpetrator emerged from the back of the mobile home with what we now believe is the weapon in the case
(a generation of cop shows and local news taught her this language, the captain sweating in the hallway under the temporary lights, the revolver dangling from his finger).
As best we can reconstruct the incident …
LYLE’S EYES
He tumbles down from the hallway wall, down into the kitchen, and when he straightens up again, she sees that he is holding the little chrome gun in his hand and that his fly is open and that his big soft cock is out.
“Watch this,” he says.
He holds the pistol (both hands, the way they do on TV) and fires two bullets the length of the trailer, two messy holesin the far wall. “Nobody can hear us out here,” he says, “not this time of year. Just so you know that.”
There’s so much to think about, the extraordinary size of his cock, like something from a different species, and the gun—where did he get it? is it the same one? did Lyle get out somehow?—yet there’s so little time. Suddenly purposeful, Lyle strides quickly to Tina, wraps his free hand in her hair and forces her to her knees in front of him, while keeping the gun on Bobby. “All right, girlfriend,” Lyle says. “You can do me now.”
A sudden, sickening conviction sweeps through her, the knowledge that this was all her fault, that if she had been smarter or stronger or somehow better, this would never have happened, and tears of futility and rage—rage at herself, at her circumstances—began to form in her eyes.
“You think I’m fucking kidding?” Lyle says, tapping her temple with the barrel of the gun. “Take it now, girlfriend.”
“Leave her alone,” Bobby says quietly.
“You want it first?” Lyle says, turning toward Bobby; and in his face Tina sees an accumulation of anger, a lifetime’s worth, a million dollar’s worth of rage. “I’ll fucking give it to you first. We’ve got all fucking night here.”
He tosses Tina’s head aside, as if he were throwing her away, sits heavily on the sofa next to Bobby and caresses his smooth head, one hand behind Bobby’s neck, the other holding the pistol to his throat. As Tina’s mind starts to clear (an incessant buzzing confusion of fear and anger and inability to make sense, still), she sees that Lyle’s eyes are blank, and she understands,
Lyle wades through dishes and towels and piles of upturned sex magazines toward them, spilling cigarette ashes as he goes. “It isn’t that I don’t give a shit,” he says, “although I don’t.”
“We need to get going,” Bobby says. “Why don’t we settle this thing?”
(Tina witnesses the pale blobs of magazine skin crumpling under Lyle’s feet, little imaginary girls.)
“You didn’t even read about that storm, I bet,” Lyle says. “Turned this fucker right over.”
“I’ve got to get to work tomorrow,” Bobby says. “I’ve got to check in by nine.”
“No, you don’t,” Lyle says, suddenly sharp. “You don’t have to be anywhere in the morning, or you wouldn’t be here in the first place. Nobody’s expecting you.” He pops the top of the tiny can and drinks the martini off on one pull, sighs, thengrins at them. “Miracles of modern technology. But I’ll go get what you came for, if y’all are in that much of a hurry.”
Lyle shuffles off through the wreckage, using a step stool to boost himself onto the wall of the back hallway, crawling along, dropping into one of the bedrooms with a heavy, booming sound. What would happen if he landed on a window?
“This place is creeping me out,” Tina whispers.
“What’s he going to do? Shoot us?” Bobby asks, annoyed. “This is like regular life. It isn’t TV, it isn’t the movies.”
TV
The perpetrator emerged from the back of the mobile home with what we now believe is the weapon in the case
(a generation of cop shows and local news taught her this language, the captain sweating in the hallway under the temporary lights, the revolver dangling from his finger).
As best we can reconstruct the incident …
LYLE’S EYES
He tumbles down from the hallway wall, down into the kitchen, and when he straightens up again, she sees that he is holding the little chrome gun in his hand and that his fly is open and that his big soft cock is out.
“Watch this,” he says.
He holds the pistol (both hands, the way they do on TV) and fires two bullets the length of the trailer, two messy holesin the far wall. “Nobody can hear us out here,” he says, “not this time of year. Just so you know that.”
There’s so much to think about, the extraordinary size of his cock, like something from a different species, and the gun—where did he get it? is it the same one? did Lyle get out somehow?—yet there’s so little time. Suddenly purposeful, Lyle strides quickly to Tina, wraps his free hand in her hair and forces her to her knees in front of him, while keeping the gun on Bobby. “All right, girlfriend,” Lyle says. “You can do me now.”
A sudden, sickening conviction sweeps through her, the knowledge that this was all her fault, that if she had been smarter or stronger or somehow better, this would never have happened, and tears of futility and rage—rage at herself, at her circumstances—began to form in her eyes.
“You think I’m fucking kidding?” Lyle says, tapping her temple with the barrel of the gun. “Take it now, girlfriend.”
“Leave her alone,” Bobby says quietly.
“You want it first?” Lyle says, turning toward Bobby; and in his face Tina sees an accumulation of anger, a lifetime’s worth, a million dollar’s worth of rage. “I’ll fucking give it to you first. We’ve got all fucking night here.”
He tosses Tina’s head aside, as if he were throwing her away, sits heavily on the sofa next to Bobby and caresses his smooth head, one hand behind Bobby’s neck, the other holding the pistol to his throat. As Tina’s mind starts to clear (an incessant buzzing confusion of fear and anger and inability to make sense, still), she sees that Lyle’s eyes are blank, and she understands,
Similar Books
