Crank Series: Crank Part 13

Hardly a handle for a white knight.

Bree asked for the name on his birth certificate.

Mom named me Adam.

Better. We liked it. So why didn't he use it?

(Forgetting completely about the Kristina thing.) Hard name to live up to.

Not really. It isn't hard to fall from grace. Revisit Genesis. Maybe I'll go with you. Might be fun.

You're a strange girl.

I had to agree. What was up with this person, Bree? And was she a permanent fixture?

But I'd like to get to know you.

I Wanted to Know Him, Too

Wanted to know what Guinivere knew.

Bree might have pulled him closer, tempted his kiss that very moment, given hers in return.

But with a sudden slam, reality kicked into gear. Downstairs, Guinivere called his name.

He answered, Up here.

I looked in his eyes, caught a hint of warped humor, jumped up to go inside.

He asked, How long are you staying?

Not long enough, I wanted to say. But I told him, "Three weeks."

He said, Not much time.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Bree vanished, leaving panic in her wake.

He finished, But maybe enough.

The Return of Guinivere

She took in the scene, face cinder-block hard, eyes blinking like mad, black turn signals.

"Who is she?"

As if he had something to explain. He didn't, did he? Yet his voice was right beside my ear, Bree.

I swear I saw her claws spring out. I froze, prey.

She told me her name was Lince. Then translated, "Lynx."

She had claimed her territory.

I decided to let the wildcats play, uninterrupted. His warm hand whispered against mine.

See you soon.

His promise fell, soft as a premonition, followed by the bobcat's predatory growl, "Me too."

That'll Teach Me

to spy to moan to covet my neighbor's boyfriend.

I ran inside, tried to breathe to laugh to silence the drumming inside my head.

Went into the kitchen to get a drink to get away to get a glimpse of the biggest c.o.c.kroach I'd ever seen.

Toss-and-Turn Night

Bone-oven hot outside, swamp-cooler cool three feet up the hallway, temperature in Dad's claustrophobic guest room: lukewarm.

The bed was a monstrous box spring. Thin, mildewed foam, two sprays of Lysol, and one thrift-store sheet were all that lay between Bedzilla and me.

Tried my right side. Kept seeing the kitchen c.o.c.kroach, the one I tried to pretend was only a Mormon cricket, Los Alamos-grown.

Tried my left side. Flashed on my bedroom at home.

Pin clean, pretty in mauve, a ballet of pink b.u.t.terflies on the walls, pillow-top mattress to die for.

Flopped onto my back. Found the keyhole behind my eyes, squeezed through, into sleep.

Not slumber, but sleep just this side of waking, where dreams fuse with reality.

Through the Keyhole

I found myself in a meadow, brilliant green beneath a soft wash of sunshine.

I moved at a near sprint, drawn toward a symphony, primitive pa.s.sion.

Lovemaking.

Wildcats mating, snarls at the joining, satisfied roars signaling completion.

I slowed, shifted upwind, crept very near, somehow unafraid.

Fascinated.

Some movement gave me away. Exquisite feline eyes found me in the gra.s.s, golden eyes, flecked green.

He purred and she looked up.

I gasped at her face.

My face.

So Much for Sleep

Jump-started awake, I sat up in bed, found the eyes of the lynx at the gla.s.s, snarls in the hallway.

Sweat-drenched, shivering, I threw back the sheet, went to the window, three flights above a deserted alley.

Found no eyes but dream eyes.

One demon conquered, I slipped on flip-flops, mediocre protection against monster c.o.c.kroaches, wandered toward the kitchen.

Found no snarls but Dad's snores.

I Hid Out for Three Days

Spent them sleeping in, like Dad.

I work late. No shame in that.

Afternoons we ate fast food and talked.

Sure I want more. Some day.

He was pushing 45. Time was running out.

A house of my own. A good woman.

Surely he'd dated one or two since Mom?

Slept with a few. Don't do movies....

There's more to dating than movies.

Don't do dinner, unless they cook.

Come on, Dad. What about love?