Blood Runs Cold

33

Ren woke to Billy Waites’ arm wrapped around her naked stomach. Her heart flipped. She closed her eyes. Oh. God.

The flashback reel kicked in; his face, his mouth, his arms, his hands, edited with all the other parts of his body she never thought she’d see. Or do anything to. It was a great reel. But WTF?

Billy woke, groaning, sliding his hand out from under her.

‘Good morning,’ he said, rolling on to his back. She could hear the smile in his voice.

What have I done?

‘The FBI,’ said Billy, laughing.

The people who can fire me.

She sat up. ‘I’m sorry, Billy. I’ve got to go …’

‘Already?’

‘Yes.’ She looked around the room, trying to pinpoint each item of clothing before she got up. Hostage training: walk into a room, know immediately where everything is.

‘You are not happy this morning,’ said Billy.

She turned to look at him. He held her hair out of her eyes.

Don’t be nice to me. ‘I … don’t know what to say.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Billy. ‘Kind of.’

Ren sat up. Panties: two o’clock. Jeans: three o’clock. Bra: ten o’clock. Boots: six o’clock. Top …

‘Did you see my top?’ she said.

‘It’s behind the bar.’

Oh God. ‘I’ll get it on the way out.’ She stood by the bed. ‘Uh … thanks.’

‘Thanks?’ He laughed.

‘For putting me up,’ said Ren.

‘For putting you up to what?’

She gave him a patient face.

‘Do I not get a kiss goodbye?’ he said.

Jesus Christ. She bent down to kiss him, hovering between his cheek and his forehead. He ignored her and went for her mouth. She stumbled backward.

He laughed.

‘I lost my balance,’ said Ren.

‘Is that what happened last night?’

She tilted her head at him. ‘Bye. Thanks. I mean …’

She stopped in the bathroom on her way out. She looked in the mirror and saw her hangover face: the skin, paler than her neck, mascara slightly smudged. She spent good money on makeup to withstand a night’s drinking and … she also saw her mistake face, her eyes slightly haunted and asking that question she could never answer. What the fuck were you thinking? She ran her middle finger under each eye and fixed her mascara. She scraped her nails through her hair and stared at her reflection. What the fuck were you thinking? She frowned. She smiled. But WTF?

She grabbed her top from a pile of upside-down beer glasses and quickly put it on. She walked to the door, unlocked it and pulled it open. The snow was three feet high. She could see her Jeep across the parking lot, settled into a drift. Shit. She kept staring as if the snow would part. Shit. She went back in to Billy. He was talking quietly into his cellphone. He looked up, slightly confused, then quickly finished his call.

He smiled.

‘Do you have a snow shovel?’ said Ren.

‘Oh yeah. The storm.’

‘Yup.’

‘Right.’ He fell back on the bed. ‘Right. Just give me a minute to get my shit together. Is your head hurting this morning? I totally –’

‘I’m sorry, but I really need to get to work,’ said Ren. ‘OK? So just tell me where the fu— snowplow is and I can do my thing.’

‘Wow … calm down.’

‘One of my least favorite phrases in the world.’

Billy gave her a look she had seen before, usually when her tone had crossed a line. He threw back the covers and sat up. ‘Fine.’

‘Look, I’m late. That’s all.’

She walked back into the bar while he was getting dressed. He came out with the shovel. ‘You sit down. Can I get you a coffee?’

Ren shook her head. Her eyes moved to the door. He got the message. And he didn’t like it. He went out back and Ren watched from the window as he plowed a path to her Jeep, to the road and back to the door of the bar.

He walked in and unzipped his jacket, throwing it on one of the chairs.

‘Well, thanks,’ said Ren, standing up, desperate to leave the stale oppression of a bar in the morning. Billy started opening the shutters, his back turned to her, a quick glance over his shoulder for a half-hearted goodbye.

Ren got into the Jeep, took out her phone and dialed Helen’s number. She answered as Ren was pulling out of the parking lot.

‘Can you talk?’ said Ren.

‘Five minutes.’

Ren paused. ‘I … screwed up.’

‘OK …’

‘I … slept with a C.I. – a confidential informant. Last night.’

‘OK,’ said Helen. ‘What happened?’

‘He works in a bar. I went to see him. We were snowed in. We had a few drinks …’

‘Are you OK? He didn’t, like …’

‘God, no,’ said Ren. ‘He’s a lovely guy. I mean, he’s a criminal, but –’

‘He’s a criminal.’

‘Well, yeah. Obviously. Most C.I.s are. I mean, he’s … reformed.’

‘He told you that?’

‘No. But –’

‘But …?’

‘I believe him.’

‘Really?’

‘No. I guess not. No.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘OK? Here’s how I feel. I am so attracted to him, it’s amazing.’

‘I have heard you say that before.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I mean it this time.’

Helen said nothing.

‘What’ll I do?’ said Ren.

‘How many times have you asked me that?’

‘I know, but I’m hoping one day you’ll crack …’

Helen laughed. ‘Look, work out the patterns, Ren. You’re an intelligent woman. Why do you put yourself in these situations? What are the factors? Alcohol doesn’t help. Stress … you know all this.’

‘I know, but I still do it anyway. And for the first time, I can say, honestly, that even if I hadn’t been drinking, it would have happened. I know there are people who can walk away from this kind of thing … but I’m not one of them. I’d love to be, but … I never have.’

‘But you don’t feel good afterwards.’

‘I live in the moment.’

‘And then you regret the moment. And the moment eats you up, obsesses you. In a really bad way. And then …’

‘And then nothing, I’ve too much on now for it to get in the way.’

‘Yeah, because “feeling shit” gives a damn about what you have going on in your life.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not going to get down about it …’

‘Are you looking after yourself? Are you eating well? Sleeping?’

‘Not really … Mom.’

‘I’ll ignore that. Do me a favor, please. Go to the gym. Go to the health-food store. Get some early nights. Try a routine.’

Ren sighed.

‘And stay away from beer,’ said Helen.

Ren’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Must try harder,’ said Helen.

‘Story of my life,’ said Ren.

When Ren got back to the inn, she went straight to her room and into the shower. And in the tenth minute she stood there, wondering if she had put conditioner in her hair, wondering whether, if she had, she’d rinsed it out, wondering if really hot water ruined your skin, she saw the face of Gary Dettling. In one hour she would be sitting oppositehim, discussing the reliability of Billy Waites.

It depends on what you are relying on him for.