Читать книгу Thirty Below - Harry Groome - Страница 4

HER ADVENTURE BEGAN on a Saturday, one much like every Saturday in her life, a life she would describe as “going nowhere, unless you consider a dead-end somewhere.” Adele Caroline Ritter, called Carrie by almost everyone for as long as she could remember, was standing in her morning shower thinking being warm was the best part of her life. She loved the warm weather in southern California; loved lying around at the beach, loved her tanning salon, and loved taking hot showers at the start of every day. She thought all were warm and good and with all these good warm things at her fingertips, what more could a girl want? The thought caused her to let out a short laugh for the answer was more. Tons more.

The man of her dreams for starters.

And a new job.

And a change of scene.

And anything else that would be new and exciting.

She kneaded shampoo into her blonde curls and, for a moment, wondered about the weather in Alaska and then turned the shower dial past the red temperature-warning button and raised her chin so the water hit the top of her head, rinsed her soapy shoulders and washed over her back and hips and down her legs and swirled around her narrow, long-toed feet. She pressed her hands against the shower wall, inspected her nails and thought she’d get a manicure, something she did every Saturday because it was part of being a professional even though most of the time her hands were hidden in vinyl gloves. She turned her hands front and back. Not ugly, she thought, but big. Really big. It was a wonder one of her patients hadn’t said something.

While she was thinking about the size of her hands she thought she heard a sound in the living room and pushed open the shower door and called, “Hannah, that you?” but the small apartment was quiet except for the pulsing hum of the air conditioners. She listened a moment longer and stepped back under the shower and began to sing to feel less alone. She sang Hard Hearted Hannah, the song she thought must have been written about her roommate, Hannah Hall. She was singing, “Talk of your cold, refrigerating mammas, brother, she’s the polar bear’s pajamas!” when once more she thought she’d heard a noise in the living room. Again she pushed the shower door open and leaned her head out. “Hannah? You home?”

Still there was no answer. “Hello!” she said, and waited. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

Maybe Hannah’s right, she thought. Maybe she should give up caffeine or maybe tonight’s long-awaited date had put her on edge. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax and watched the water rinse the soapy bubbles from her breasts. Not flat as pancakes, but not great either and she wondered if old Doctor-Boobs-dot-com, or whatever his name was, could help. It wasn’t like maxillofacial surgery or anything; it was only a couple of incisions and silicone shells for Pete’s sake. Maybe it would be worth the $7,500 if it would help her find Mr. Right.

She turned off the shower and swept water from her thighs and calves. When she finished drying herself, she draped her towel over the sink and stepped on the scales. Her weight hadn’t changed since college and it was one of the few constants in her life that pleased her, for she knew from her years of being a swimmer at USC that one hundred and forty-six pounds was the right weight for a woman with her build who stood five feet eleven inches tall. She rewrapped her towel and began to blow dry her hair, adding another mental note to tell her hairdresser that she was tired of her curly blonde ponytail hanging from the back of a baseball cap like all the other girls in La Jolla and that she had to do something new and different.

The idea of something new made her smile, something she felt she should do more often because, by her own professional analysis, her teeth were straight, a good size and a one or a two on the tooth shade whiteness scale. “The perfect pearly whites for a dental hygienist,” was the constant refrain of the dentist she worked for, and she shook her head as she swept the blow dryer over her curls, silently cursing her boss for standing too close to her in the examining room, occasionally pressing against her or brushing her butt with his small, delicate hands. She dismissed these thoughts as part of a bigger problem, moved the blow dryer quickly about her head, and decided to take inventory.

She began by focusing on her large green eyes in the mirror, gave them a better than average grade and thought her teeth and weight were okay, maybe even better than okay, but worried that she was too tall for most men and that her hands and feet were too large. Her breasts were adequate, but nothing to write home about. Her hair color also was nothing special, although she thought her tight curls were distinctive—kind of her trademark—and shook her head and said aloud, “But shoulders like a linebacker, and hips like a little boy.”

When she’d almost finished drying her hair, for what seemed like the thousandth time, she debated the pros and cons of getting the tattoo that most people never saw. Why did I ever do that, she wondered. For breaking sixty seconds in the 100-meter fly, that’s why. She unwrapped her towel and began to turn to look in the mirror at the red and blue tattoo of a butterfly on the small of her tanned back, to re-convince herself that it was stylish—hopefully even sexy—but as she turned, she saw something flicker in the corner of the mirror and held the blow dryer still above her shoulder. Her heart began to race and her body shook with adrenalin when a thick forearm covered with coarse black hair slid across her breasts and pulled her hard against its owner.

Carrie screamed for holy Jesus and looked in the mirror at a tall man pressing against her from behind. She expected to see a stranger wearing a stocking or a ski mask over his head but instead, Jake Hornbeck was undisguised and laughing, his muscular body naked from the waist up.

“Scare you?” he said.

“What do you think?” Carrie said, struggling to pry his arm from her chest. “Now let go of me.”

Her efforts only seemed to tighten his grasp and she felt a sudden rush of panic as she realized that she was at this man’s mercy for he was the strongest man she’d ever encountered, certainly way too strong for her. “Jake, let go of me,” she said again, and told him that he wasn’t funny, but as she pleaded with him she felt his arm tighten even more, and watched the muscles of his forearm flex, and for an instant thought that his heavily haired arm looked so out of place pressing against her breasts, still pink from the warm shower. “Please, Jake,” she coughed out, “I don’t like this and you know it. Remember? The rough stuff is one of the—”

“Ah, come on, Carrie,” he interrupted, and continued to grin at her in the mirror. “I thought I’d give you a surprise. To change your mind about Alaska.”

“It’s not about Alaska, Jake. It’s about you and me. And no matter what you do you can’t change my mind about us.” She stared at him in the mirror, trying to sort through her thoughts that were now jumbled by fear. “How did you get in here anyway?”

“You gave me a key, remember?”

“But that was before…” She turned off the blow dryer and placed it in the sink. Even though she was having a hard time breathing, the bathroom seemed a little more settled, even a bit more hopeful, without the whirring sound. She rested her hands on the sides of the basin and tried to draw a full breath, all the while staring at Jake in the mirror. She was repulsed by the Death Before Dishonor and scorpion tattoos on his biceps and shoulder. They said so much about him; reflected his dark side that it had taken her so long to discover.

Jake stared back at her, smiling broadly, something Carrie thought definitely didn’t fit the situation. She stood motionless, her hands still resting on the basin and struggled to regain her composure. She waited a moment and then said, as calmly as she could, “Jake, please, be nice and let go of me. We agreed we were through with all this. Why can’t we just be friends?”

“Because that’s not the way I’m wired.” The smile left his face as quickly as it had appeared. “I don’t give up that easily; certainly not to some son of a bitch you haven’t even met.” He bit her earlobe. “One more time, Carrie, to see what you’ll be missing,” he said, and promised that he’d make it fun, more fun than she’d have in Alaska.

“Jake, listen to me.” She slapped her hands on the edges of the basin. “This is not my idea of fun! Besides, Hannah’s due home any minute.”

“Nice try, big girl, but she’s worked Saturdays ever since I’ve known you.”

She said Hannah had the day off.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said and began to run his free hand back and forth across her belly and then moved his fingers between her legs.

Carrie screamed, “No!” and grabbed for his hand only to find her hand in his grip, and again she thought he had almost superhuman strength. “Jake,” she pleaded, “please take me seriously. I’m asking you to take your hands off me and leave. This has gone far enough, so out and out now. Please, before Hannah comes home. Before this goes any further.”

The phone rang. “I’ve got to get that. I’m expecting a call from my mom.”

It rang a second time. “She’s sick.”

Jake laughed. “She can leave a message.”

The phone rang again.

“Please, I have to talk to her,” Carrie said.

Jake forced Carrie’s hand with his between her legs. “Later,” he said, and the phone rang once more and Carrie pressed her thighs together and the phone stopped ringing and she started to cry. “Damn you,” she sobbed. “God damn you. It’s this type of thing that finished us. Now please, if you really care about me, let go of me and get out of here.”

For a moment there wasn’t a sound in the apartment other than Carrie’s quiet sobs, and then Hannah’s voice, amplified through the answering machine, broke the silence. “Carrie? Where are you? Call me when you get a chance. I have to stay after five and need a favor of you.”

“So Hannah got the day off?” Jake said, squeezing Carrie’s hand tighter as he began to rub his fist between her legs. “And it wasn’t Mom after all.” He pressed his mouth over her ear and whispered, “Stop stalling and give Jake Hornbeck a chance to change your life.”

Carrie thought if only he could, but this wasn’t what she had in mind. As she began to tell him no he let go of her hand and she heard the sound of his zipper. “What are you doing?” she screamed.

“Enjoy the moment,” he said. “It’ll beat the hell out of internet dating. You’ll see.”

Carrie looked at Jake’s face in the mirror. His eyes were narrow and dark and bright. The man with the angular face and large brown eyes that she’d found so handsome the first time she met him now looked like a giant rat. Again she told him to leave, that he was out of control, that she hated him, that he wasn’t the kind of man she’d thought he was, but his arm seemed to tighten even more across her chest and his fingers dug into her rib cage like some gigantic claw.

She forced out, “Please, I can’t breathe.”

“Nice and easy,” he said, and she felt him press himself between her legs.

She tried to scream for him to stop but his free hand closed over her mouth before she could say anything. She felt as if she were suffocating, the pressure on her chest and his hand over her mouth making it difficult for her to draw anything but short, quick breaths through her nose and then she felt him press hard against her as he moved up between her buttocks.

“Oh, my God, no!” she screamed and reached in the sink, grabbed the blow dryer and whipped it back over her shoulder with all her strength, its oval open end hitting him above the eye with a loud crack.

“You cunt!” he yelled and covered his eye with his hands.

Carrie turned and pushed him backward, relieved to be free of his grasp. Jake took his hands from his eye and looked at the blood on them. “You’re just like all the rest,” he said. “Want it on your terms, or not at all.” He dangled his arms and bent forward at the waist, blood dripping down his cheek to the floor. The crazed smile returned to his face. “Well, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He began nodding as though he was agreeing with some internal voice. “Run off to Alaska with some stranger if you must, but no bitch like you turns Jake Hornbeck down.” And he came at her, bent at the waist, his pants sliding to his ankles, his penis erect.

Carrie swung the hair dryer at him but he blocked the blow with his forearm, jolting the dryer free from her grasp, sending it caroming across the floor. He smiled, straightened slightly and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her against him.

For an instant Carrie’s mind went blank, giving in to a blackness of despair. Instinctively she brought her knee up between his legs and felt it make contact with him, felt his grip loosen on her shoulders and watched as he took a step backward and then a second, clutching himself, and dropped to his knees and fall to his side on the bathroom floor and kick his bare feet, his blue jeans and skivvies knotted around one ankle.

Carrie reached down and pulled her towel from beneath his legs. She could hear him groaning and muttering, “You cunt. You fucking cunt.”

She ran to her bedroom and wrapped the towel around her and crossed her arms across her bruised chest to warm herself and grabbed her cell phone and dialed and cupped her hand around the phone and whispered, “Hannah Hall, please.”

When Hannah finally got on the line, Carrie was sobbing.

“Who’s calling, please?” Hannah said.

Carrie tried to muffle her cries.

“Hello? Who’s calling please?” Hannah asked again.

Carrie sucked in a breath and let it out and struggled to be understood. “It’s me.”

“Jesus, are you all right?”

“Come home, Hannah.”

“Okay, Carrie, calm down. What’s the matter?”

“He tried to have his way with me.”

“Who’s he?”

“Jake.”

“I thought that was over,” Hannah said. “Where is he now?”

“In the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Rolling around on the floor, holding his balls.” Carrie lowered her voice. “I kneed him.”

“Jesus, Carrie, when will you …” Hannah stopped before giving Carrie the lecture she knew she deserved. “Call the cops. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, no more.”

Carrie nodded at the phone.

“Do what I say for once, will you?” Hannah said.

She nodded again. “Hurry, Hannah,” she said, punched off the phone, and stared through her bedroom door into her apartment. Suddenly it didn’t look at all like home. She was trapped. Nothing was right. Nothing, and she pleaded to God to get her out of this mess without any more trouble.

She kept the phone in her hand and tiptoed to the bathroom and peeked in. Jake was on his knees with one hand on the side of the toilet bowl, the other pressing a wad of toilet paper against the cut above his eye. His face was streaked with blood and mucous dripped from his nose into the bowl.

Carrie mustered all the courage she could. “I just called the cops, so if you don’t want me to squeal on you you’d better get out of here right now.”

Jake stood and worked his way into his undershorts and pants and pushed by her into the living room where he shooed a large cat from the couch and pulled a polo shirt and a pair of Tevas from under one of its cushions. He slipped his shirt over his head, struggled to get his arms into the sleeves and slid his feet into his sandals and smoothed their straps closed. “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me, because you haven’t,” he said. “I’ll get even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Carrie shook her head. “If you ever bother me again and don’t give me back my key, so help me God, I’ll tell the cops it was you.”

Jake told her to go fuck herself and took the key from his pants pocket and threw it at her and slipped through the door, slamming it behind him.

Carrie collapsed on the couch, wrapped herself tightly with a throw she pulled from the back of it and screamed, “Jesus, it’s cold in here!” The cat jumped into her lap and began to purr. She smoothed a trembling hand over the cat’s black and white-striped back. “He knows where I live, Alcatraz. Where I work. He knows everything about me.” She held the cat close to her and rubbed her cheek against the soft fur of his neck. “But maybe he’s in more trouble than I am. Maybe he’s worried about me squealing to the cops. Who knows?” She sighed. “All I know is, I want out of here and all I want to know is why is it I can’t get anything right?”