Pretty Girls (2 page)

Paul looked at the man for the first time since he’d walked through the door. “Should I go punch him in the nose?”

“Yes.”

“Will you take me to the hospital when he punches me back?”

“Yes.”

Paul smiled, but only because she was smiling, too. “So, how does it feel to be untethered?”

Claire looked down at her naked ankle, half expecting to see a bruise or mark where the chunky black ankle bracelet had been. Six months had passed since she’d worn a skirt in public, the same amount of time she’d been wearing the court-ordered monitoring device. “It feels like freedom.”

He straightened the straw by her drink, making it parallel to the napkin. “You’re constantly tracked with your phone and the GPS in your car.”

“I can’t be sent to jail every time I put down my phone or leave my car.”

Paul shrugged off the point, which she thought was a very good one. “What about curfew?”

“It’s lifted. As long as I stay out of trouble for the next year, my record will be expunged and it’ll be like it never even happened.”

“Magic.”

“More like a very expensive lawyer.”

He grinned. “It’s cheaper than that bracelet you wanted from Cartier.”

“Not if you add in the earrings.” They shouldn’t joke about this, but the alternative was to take it very seriously. She said, “It’s weird. I know the monitor’s not there anymore, but I can still feel it.”

“Signal detection theory.” He straightened the straw again. “Your perceptual systems are biased toward the monitor touching your skin. More often, people experience the sensation with their phones. They feel it vibrating even when it’s not.”

That’s what she got for marrying a geek.

Paul stared at the television. “You think they’ll find her?”

Claire didn’t respond. She looked down at the drink in Paul’s hand. She’d never liked the taste of Scotch, but being told she shouldn’t drink had made her want to go on a week-long bender.

This afternoon, out of desperation for something to say, Claire had told her court-appointed psychiatrist that she absolutely despised being told what to do. “Who the hell doesn’t?” the blowsy woman had demanded, slightly incredulous. Claire had felt her cheeks turn red, but she knew better than to say that she was particularly bad about it, that she had landed herself in court-appointed therapy for that very reason. She wasn’t going to give the woman the satisfaction of a breakthrough.

Besides, Claire had come to that realization on her own the minute the handcuffs were clamped around her wrists.

“Idiot,” she had mumbled to herself as the cop had guided her into the back of the squad car.

“That’s going in my report,” the woman had briskly informed her.

They were all women that day, female police officers of varying sizes and shapes with thick leather belts around their chunky waists carrying all manner of lethal devices. Claire felt that things would’ve gone a lot better if at least one of them had been a man, but sadly, that was not the case. This is where feminism had gotten her: locked in the back of a sticky squad car with the skirt on her tennis dress riding up her thighs.

At the jail, Claire’s wedding ring, watch, and tennis shoelaces had been taken by a large woman with a mole between her hairy eyebrows whose general appearance reminded Claire of a stink bug. There was no hair growing out of the mole, and Claire wanted to ask why she bothered to pluck the mole but not her eyebrows but it was too late because another woman, this one tall and reedy like a praying mantis, was already taking Claire into the next room.

The fingerprinting was nothing like on TV. Instead of ink, Claire had to press her fingers onto a filthy glass plate so the swirls could be digitized into a computer. Her swirls, apparently, were very faint. It took several tries.

“Good thing I didn’t rob a bank,” Claire said, then added, “ha ha,” to convey the humor.

“Press evenly,” the praying mantis said, chewing off the wings of a fly.

Claire’s mugshot was taken against a white background with a ruler that was clearly off by an inch. She wondered aloud why she wasn’t asked to hold a sign with her name and inmate number.

“Photoshop template,” the praying mantis said in a bored tone that indicated the question was not a new one.

It was the only picture Claire had ever taken where no one had told her to smile.

Then a third policewoman who, bucking the trend, had a nose like a mallard, had taken Claire to the holding cell where, surprisingly, Claire was not the only woman in a tennis outfit.

“What’re you in for?” the other tennis-outfitted inmate had asked. She looked hard and strung out and had obviously been arrested while playing with a different set of balls.

“Murder,” Claire had said, because she had already decided that she wasn’t going to take this seriously.

“Hey.” Paul had finished his Scotch and was signaling the bartender for a refill. “What are you thinking about over there?”

She let out a long sigh. “I’m thinking your day was probably worse than mine if you’re ordering a second drink.” Paul rarely drank. It was something they had in common. Neither one of them liked feeling out of control, which had made jail a real bummer, ha ha.

She asked him, “Everything all right?”

“It’s good right now.” He rubbed her back with his hand. “What did the shrink say?”

Claire waited until the bartender had returned to his corner. “She said that I’m not being forthcoming about my emotions.”

“That’s not like you at all.”

They smiled at each other. Another old argument that wasn’t worth having anymore.

“I don’t like being analyzed,” Claire said, and she could picture her analyst offering an exaggerated shrug as she demanded, “Who the hell does?”

“You know what I was thinking today?” Paul took her hand. His palm felt rough. He’d been working in the garage all weekend. “I was thinking about how much I love you.”

“That’s a funny thing for a husband to say to his wife.”

“It’s true, though.” Paul pressed her hand to his lips. “I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you.”

“Tidier,” she said, because Paul was the one who was always picking up abandoned shoes and various items of clothing that should’ve been put in the laundry basket but somehow ended up in front of the bathroom sink.

He said, “I know things are hard right now. Especially with—” He tilted his head toward the television, which was showing a new photo of the missing sixteen-year-old.

Claire looked at the set. The girl really was beautiful. Athletic and lean with dark, wavy hair.

Paul said, “I just want you to know that I’m always going to be here for you. No matter what.”

Claire felt her throat start to tighten. She took him for granted sometimes. That was the luxury of a long marriage. But she knew that she loved him. She needed him. He was the anchor that kept her from drifting away.

He said, “You know that you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

She invoked her college predecessor. “Ava Guilford would be shocked to hear that.”

“Don’t play. I’m being serious.” He leaned in so close that his forehead almost touched hers. “You are the love of my life, Claire Scott. You’re everything to me.”

“Despite my criminal record?”

He kissed her. Really kissed her. She tasted Scotch and a hint of peppermint and felt a rush of pleasure when his fingers stroked the inside of her thigh.

When they stopped for air, she said, “Let’s go home.”

Paul finished his drink in one swallow. He tossed some cash onto the bar. His hand stayed at Claire’s back as they left the restaurant. A cold gust of wind picked at the hem of her skirt. Paul rubbed her arm to keep her warm. He was walking so close to her that she could feel his breath on her neck. “Where are you parked?”

“Parking deck,” she said.

“I’m on the street.” He handed his keys to her. “Take my car.”

“Let’s go together.”

“Let’s go here.” He pulled her into an alley and pressed her back against the wall.

Claire opened her mouth to ask what had gotten into him, but then he was kissing her. His hand slid underneath her skirt. Claire gasped, but not so much because he took her breath away as because the alley was not dark and the street was not empty. She could see men in suits strolling by, heads turning, eyes tracking the scene until the last moment. This was how people ended up on the Internet.

“Paul.” She put her hand to his chest, wondering what had happened to her vanilla husband who thought it was kinky if they did it in the guest room. “People are watching.”

“Back here.” He took her hand, leading her deeper into the alley.

Claire stepped over a graveyard of cigarette butts as she followed him. The alley was T-shaped, intersecting with another service alley for the restaurants and shops. Hardly a better situation. She imagined fry cooks standing at open doors with cigarettes in their mouths and iPhones in their hands. Even without spectators, there were all kinds of reasons she should not do this.

Then again, no one liked being told what to do.

Paul pulled her around a corner. Claire had a quick moment to scan their empty surroundings before her back was pressed against another wall. His mouth covered hers. His hands cupped her ass. He wanted this so badly that she started to want it, too. She closed her eyes and let herself give in. Their kisses deepened. He tugged down her underwear. She helped him, shuddering because it was cold and it was dangerous and she was so ready that she didn’t care anymore.

“Claire …” he whispered in her ear. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.”

“Tell me again.”

“I want this.”

Without warning, he spun her around. Claire’s cheek grazed the brick. He had her pinned to the wall. She pushed back against him. He groaned, taking the move for excitement, but she could barely breathe.

“Paul—”

“Don’t move.”

Claire understood the words, but her brain took several seconds to process the fact that they had not come from her husband’s mouth.

“Turn around.”

Paul started to turn.

“Not you, asshole.”

Her. He meant her. Claire couldn’t move. Her legs were shaking. She could barely hold herself up.

“I said turn the fuck around.”

Paul’s hands gently wrapped around Claire’s arms. She stumbled as he slowly turned her around.

There was a man standing directly behind Paul. He was wearing a black hoodie zipped just below his thick, tattooed neck. A sinister-looking rattlesnake arced across his Adam’s apple, its fangs showing in a wicked grin.

“Hands up.” The snake’s mouth bobbed as the man spoke.

“We don’t want trouble.” Paul’s hands were in the air. His body was perfectly still. Claire looked at him. He nodded once, telling her it was going to be okay when clearly it was not. “My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

The man wrenched out the wallet with one hand. Claire could only assume a gun was in the other. She saw it in her mind’s eye: black and shiny, pressed into Paul’s back.

“Here.” Paul took off his wedding ring, his class ring, his watch. Patek Philippe. She had bought it for him five years ago. His initials were on the back.

“Claire,” Paul’s voice was strained, “give him your wallet.”

Claire stared at her husband. She felt the insistent tapping of her carotid artery pulsing in her neck. Paul had a gun at his back. They were being robbed. That’s what was going on. This was real. This was happening. She looked down at her hand, the movement tracking slowly because she was in shock and terrified and didn’t know what to do. Her fingers were still wrapped around Paul’s keys. She’d been holding on to them the entire time. How could she have sex with him if she was still holding his keys?

“Claire,” Paul repeated, “get your wallet.”

She dropped the keys into her purse. She pulled out her wallet and handed it to the man.

He jammed it into his pocket, then held out his hand again. “Phone.”

Claire retrieved her iPhone. All of her contacts. Her vacation photos from the last few years. St. Martin. London. Paris. Munich.

“The ring, too.” The man glanced up and down the alley. Claire did the same. There was no one. Even the side streets were empty. Her back was still to the wall. The corner leading to the main road was an arm’s length away. There were people on the street. Lots of people.

The man read her thoughts. “Don’t be stupid. Take off the ring.”

Claire took off her wedding ring. This was okay to lose. They had insurance. It wasn’t even her original ring. They had picked it out years ago when Paul had finally finished his internship and passed his Registration Exam.

“Earrings,” the man ordered. “Come on, bitch, move.”

Claire reached up to her earlobe. Her hands had started to tremble. She hadn’t remembered putting in the diamond studs this morning, but now she could see herself standing in front of her jewelry box.

Was this her life passing before her eyes—vacant recollections of
things
?

“Hurry.” The man waved his free hand to urge her on.

Claire fumbled with the backs on her diamond studs. The tremble made her fingers thick and useless. She saw herself at Tiffany picking out the earrings. Thirty-second birthday. Paul giving her a “can you believe we’re doing this?” look as the saleslady took them back to the special secret room where high-dollar purchases were made.

Claire dropped the earrings in the man’s open hand. She was shaking. Her heart beat like a snare drum.

“That’s it.” Paul turned around. His back was pressed against Claire. Blocking her. Protecting her. He still had his hands in the air. “You have everything.”

Claire could see the man over Paul’s shoulder. He wasn’t holding a gun. He was holding a knife. A long, sharp knife with a serrated edge and a hook at the point that looked like the sort of thing a hunter would use to gut an animal.

Paul said, “There’s nothing else. Just go.”

The man didn’t go. He was looking at Claire like he’d found something more expensive to steal than her thirty-six-thousand-dollar earrings. His lips tweaked in a smile. One of his front teeth was plated in gold. She realized that the rattlesnake tattoo had a matching gold fang.