THE DIRTY ONES Read online

  She nods. “Buddy system.”

  It takes a good fifteen minutes to retrace my path from her house back to my car. And even using my footsteps as guides, it’s not easy. The snow is falling hard. It covers the night sky like a sheet of white.

  Kiera brings a small bag with her and checks her mail while I get in the car and turn it on, taking advantage of the fact that the engine is still warm, and turn the heat on while I decide who to call.

  Kiera gets in, bag of mail in hand, and then slams the door. “Jesus. Every winter I ask myself why I stay in Vermont. If I was half as smart as I was talented, I’d be writing books on a beach in St. Thomas.”

  I smile at her, then look down at my phone. I only have two bars, but it should be enough to make calls.

  “Did you make your call?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Oh. Well, I’m not complaining,” she says, taking off her gloves and waving her hands in front of the heater vents. “You’re right. I’m an idiot for not plowing the driveway. I just figured I’d wait until after the storm was over.”

  I’m still staring down at my phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Deciding people’s fates,” I say.

  “Don’t be dramatic, Con. We all decided our fates long ago.”

  “I mean, if I call my committee manager, will he get dragged into this too?”

  I think she shrugs. “I dunno. But going on past experiences, no. Because it was just us seven back then and I’m pretty sure it’s just us seven now.”

  “Eight, you mean.”

  She pauses. Then, “Yeah. Right. Eight.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence after that. And once again, I fucked up. “Sorry,” I say.

  “No. You’re right. There were eight of us.”

  “It’s just… easy to forget that Emily was there.”

  “Yeah,” Kiera says. “And then she wasn’t.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I think the consequences of telling no one where you’re at outweigh the possibility that we might inadvertently drag them into our… problem.”

  Normally I’d disagree, but I can’t just go missing. Not at this stage in my career. People are looking for me right now. People have noticed I didn’t return to New York. I’ve missed meetings. Hell, I’ll miss more meetings tomorrow morning. But none of that can be helped.

  I tap my committee manager Steven’s contact on my phone. Listen to the ring. Then, “For fuck’s sake, where the hell are you?”

  “I’m in Vermont,” I say. “Stuck in a snowstorm.”

  “Vermont?” Steve bellows. “What the hell? You do realize—”

  “I do realize,” I say, cutting him off. I had an important fundraising event tonight. “But I had to go see an old friend in Vermont on my way home from Montreal and there’s this massive blizzard going on, and—”

  “Couldn’t this little trip wait until… some other time?”

  But there is no other time. Not in my future. My future is running for the Senate. I’m supposed to announce my candidacy any day now and once that happens, the public owns me. “Steven,” I say, entirely out of patience. “I’m stuck in Vermont. That’s all I have to say. Just… let people know I’m sorry and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Doubtful,” I say. “It looks like this storm is gonna last through tomorrow. Probably Thursday. So can you just… call my father and handle shit?”

  He must hear the frustration in my voice because he says, “Uh… sure, Con. Sure. You got it. Call me tomorrow and let me know you’re OK.”

  “I will,” I say, then end the call.

  “That went OK,” Kiera says.

  “It’s his job,” I say. “He’s paid to be like that.” Then I stare at my phone again.

  “Should we call anyone else?”

  “Yes,” I say. “We should call Bennett.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments.

  “OK. Are you gonna do that? I mean, I’m in no hurry to walk back to the house. I’ll hang in the warm car for a while. But we can’t stay here forever.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m just trying to think how I should say this.”

  “Oh,” she says. And when I look over at her, she’s biting her lip. She shrugs. “Um… well, tell him to go to the closest bookstore and look at the current New York Times bestseller list. Frankly, I’m surprised you guys didn’t notice it before this. If it’s on the list it’s been out at least two weeks now. The new list won’t be announced until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Right.”

  “That kinda makes me sick,” she mutters.

  “Which part?”

  “The two weeks we didn’t know. Like… whoever wrote it has to have been expecting our reaction. Fourteen whole days they knew what was coming and we didn’t.”

  “Same old shit,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  I tap Bennett’s contact and he picks up on the first ring. “Vermont, huh?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Steven just called me losing his mind.”

  “Yeah. I’m with… Kiera.”

  “Oh?” Bennett says.

  “It’s starting again.”

  Silence on the other end of the call. “Ben?”

  “I’m here. Can you explain that?”

  I look at Kiera and say, “Walk down to the closest bookstore and buy the number three book on the New York Times bestseller list.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s called The Dirty Ones.”

  Silence.

  “Bennett?”

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  “That’s all I know. I came to Kiera’s to… I was gonna blame her, but it wasn’t her. Can you just go buy the book and then call Sofia and—”

  “Fuck that. You’re coming home. We need to—”

  “I’m stuck in a blizzard. I can’t get home until Thursday at the earliest. Can you just… get everyone on the same page? And start asking questions, Ben. Because we need to figure out what’s coming next.”

  Silence.

  “Bennett?”

  “Yeah. I’m here. I’ll do that and call you back.”

  “I don’t have cell service at Kiera’s house.”

  “You’re staying with her?” he says. “What the fuck, Connor? Go get a hotel.”

  I glance over at Kiera, find her turned away from me, staring out the window. “No. I’m not leaving her alone through this. I’m staying here. I’ll call again tomorrow and check in. Thanks.”

  I end the call before he can say anything else.

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” Kiera says.

  “Yes, I do,” I say. “Buddy system, remember?”

  She huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah. Well, thanks. Any more calls to make?”

  “Nah. Two is plenty. I’m fucking wet. I need to get out of these clothes.” Our eyes meet for a second. Just a quick meet. Then we both look away.

  I wonder if she’s picturing me the way I’m picturing her. The way she always sat in the far left corner of that couch, scribbling away in the notebook. Eyes never quite able to meet mine back then either.

  “OK,” she says, opening up her door. “Then let’s go.”

  I turn the car off, get out, and we spend the better part of fifteen minutes dragging our asses back up her driveway.

  We stomp the snow off, crashing our feet on the door mat inside the front door, but it’s hopeless. Ice balls cling to our pants like shimmering silver pearls.

  She sits down on a small bench and begins taking off her boots, while I toe out of my shoes, then yank off my soaking wet socks.

  The next thing I know she’s peeling off her pants. Exposing her legs in a way that is both familiar and altogether alien at the same time. Her thighs are bright pink from the cold and she rubs her hands up and down her legs, trying to make them warm.

  My pants are soaking wet too, but I he
sitate. I don’t know why. Kiera has seen my body more times than anyone else I know. More than Sofia. More than anyone.

  She stands up, sensing my hesitation. “I’m gonna jump in the shower, but I’ll save you some hot water and you can take one after.”

  “OK,” I say, watching her walk away from me. Watching the way her hips move back and forth and the long line of her legs. “Kiera,” I say.

  “Hmm?” She stops at the door to the bathroom, leans on the doorjamb so her face is pressed up to it, body turned sideways. I wonder if she knows what she looks like when she poses like that?

  “Leave the door open,” I say. “Just in case.”

  She presses her lips together and nods. “OK.” Then disappears inside.

  I’m still standing there, watching the open doorway, when the water comes on. Still standing there when the coils of steam begin wafting their way out into the hallway. Wishing I could see inside. Watch her in the shower.

  I wait, still and quiet, as that feeling fades. And then I strip down to my boxer briefs, hold my wet clothes in a heap in my arms, and find an excuse to stand in the bathroom doorway.

  “Looking for your laundry room,” I call, staring at the billowing shower curtain. There’s a soft fuzzy silhouette of her shape as she stands under the water. Teasing me, I think. But not on purpose.

  “It’s at the end of the hall,” she says back, water sputtering out with her words. “Just hang everything up over the radiator and let it drip dry.”

  “Thanks,” I say, forcing myself to move on.

  Her laundry room is a proper room. Bigger than her bathroom. And it has a back door.

  There’s a rod and hangers over the radiator. Like hanging up wet clothes is just part of her normal routine. I picture Kiera living out here alone. Lost in her ways. Just… being herself.

  I have a moment of envy for that. It’s so opposite to my life back in New York where every moment has been managed since I graduated from Essex College just across Lake Champlain.

  And it is, literally, just a forty-five-minute ferry ride across the lake.

  I bet if I look out this window tomorrow morning I’ll see the fucking college. I guess I never realized how close she was all these years. I guess I never realized how she never really got away.

  How does she stand it?

  I mean, I get it. She’s not rich like the rest of us. Though I don’t doubt she makes a very nice living off her writing. She’s been on the New York Times list before, I’m sure of it. I’m sure someone told me that a long time ago. Maybe Bennett. But for as long as I’ve known her, this cottage has been her home base. We used to come here back in school when we all needed to get away. It didn’t look like this, not at all. It was a dump back then. Definitely didn’t have a laundry room. Hell, the plumbing didn’t even work. Kiera lived in the main house, just down the shoreline, with her mother. This cottage was built for a caretaker, back when the family had real money.

  But we didn’t even care. To us—meaning us, not Kiera—it was like the cabins we’d stay in for summer camp. This place always felt like summer camp.

  The water turns off in the bathroom and I realize I’ve been standing here looking out the window for several minutes.

  There’s that well-known rattle of shower curtain rings as she pulls it back and I have an inexplicable urge to walk down the hallway and catch her naked. Catch her pull the towel around herself.

  But there’s a squeak of a hand rubbing steam off a mirror, then a faucet.

  She’s brushing her teeth.

  I turn from the window, sighing, and step back into the hallway. When I reach the bathroom I stop and allow myself to stare.

  She smiles at the mirror, like she’s getting some secret glimpse of me I’ll never see myself, then spits out her toothpaste, cupping water into her mouth with her hand to rinse.

  That’s when I see the exit hole the size of a bullet in her left shoulder.

  I step into the hot steam left over from her shower and my fingers are pressing against the scar before either of us realize what I’m doing.

  “God, Kiera,” I say, mesmerized by the small jagged edges of pink skin.

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  Which was the exact same thing she said right after it happened.

  And she was not fucking fine. “You were not fucking fine,” I say out loud.

  “I was,” she says, turning to face me with a forced smile.

  That’s when I realize I’m only wearing semi-damp black boxer briefs and she’s only wearing a towel. Her skin is still wet with beaded drops of water, her long, blonde hair hanging almost to her waist.

  I have an overwhelming urge to touch her other places too. Because she feels like mine. And I’ve touched her many times in the past. In every way imaginable.

  But I control that urge because she’s not mine now and maybe she never was.

  She didn’t belong to anyone. Not the way Sofia and Camille did.

  We’re staring at each other in the mirror when she breaks the now awkward silence and says, “Your turn.”

  She eases past me, the spell broken, and disappears around the corner into the hallway.

  “Leave the door open,” she calls back from her bedroom.

  “Buddy system,” I say, sorta grinning.

  “Yup. Buddy system.”

  CHAPTER FOUR - KIERA

  It’s both strange and totally normal to have Connor Arlington in my house. Strange because it’s been ten years and normal because it feels like no minutes have passed at all since that last time we were together.

  Which was the only time we were ever together alone. All the other times we were with Sofia. Or everyone. We did that a lot once we got used to the routine. But that last time was just me and him.

  I admit that I planned it that way. I did. I wanted him to myself. Just me and him.

  But I think he wanted it too.

  I tell myself that, anyway. That he wanted me that night.

  Maybe it’s an illusion. Or a delusion, I’m not quite sure.

  But then again, maybe it’s real?

  I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.

  The shower starts and I stand still in my bedroom, listening and looking into my closet, as he turns on the water and pulls the shower curtain closed.

  I took a bullet for him.

  Wow, it’s been a long time since I thought about that.

  I find a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. My usual nighttime wear, even in the winter. But then I look in the mirror and second-guess myself.

  Will I be sending him the wrong message if I bare too much skin?

  Maybe I’ll be sending him the right one?

  Jesus Christ, Kiera. Get a grip. This guy has never looked at you that way. Everything we did was… scripted. I knew that then and I know that now. In three years he’s going to be a US Senator. I don’t care how preliminary the stages are in his campaign, he will win that election.

  It’s pretty much ordained.

  So don’t get lost in the fantasy. This is real life, not a stupid book.

  The shower turns off, jolting me back into the present.

  Was that the world’s quickest shower or did I just lose time?

  That stupid book. Just what the fuck is happening right now? Is it just a reminder? Just a subtle way to remind him that he’s owned and that job in DC that will make him so powerful in the eyes of others is really nothing more than a puppet show?

  But why a book? Why that book? Why publish it when everything was such a secret back then? It makes no sense.

  I mean, I guess it makes a little sense. Our story, our true story, is in the hands of the public. They think it’s a fiction, but would it be so hard to start a rumor that those people in that book are real? That the story is real? And hey, guess what? The star of that story is none other than Connor Arlington?

  It’s a very short leap, I realize. And in the twisted, dirty world we live in, it actually makes perfect sense.
>
  “What are you doing?”

  “What?” I breathe, turning my head to see him standing in my doorway wearing nothing but a towel.

  “Why are you just standing there like that?”

  “Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Because you say that a lot and it’s never true.”

  “I said that once ten years ago.”

  “You said that ten minutes ago, Kiera. What the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say, stepping into my closet to make him disappear. “Just… get dressed.”

  He sighs across the room, then he must turn and walk away, because the floorboards creak.

  I wait in my closet like some stupid person waiting in a closet. Unable to form coherent sentences, apparently. Because that was a bad one.

  Maybe I should get out more? Maybe living alone up here in Vermont isn’t the best idea after all? Maybe I’m turning into one of those weird reclusive writer people who have no social skills and everyone thinks lost their mind back in their twenties?

  Except I’m still in my twenties. Got two more months of twenties to go, in fact. So if I’m this weird at twenty-nine, how bad will I be at thirty-nine?

  I have an entire lifetime of weird habits yet to be collected. I cannot accumulate all my eccentricities before I hit thirty.

  “Kiera,” Connor calls from the living room.

  I slide my eyeballs to the side, wondering if he’s coming back here again. “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, then cringe. Because seriously, my game is gone. I really need to get out of this house and find more game.

  No. No more games. The last thing I need is more games. I play enough of those in my day job. All my characters are borderline insane, living these weird on-the-edge lives, playing with fire and—

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Shit. He’s back. How long have I been in this closet?

  “Would you just talk to me?” And then he’s behind me. I can see him in the mirror. Some alternate reality version of him stares at me like I’m a—“What are you doing?”

  “I’m just thinking.” I sigh.