A shrill squeal of laughter cut through the dark night, and he looked around. Someone was holding a party on a balcony across the courtyard, and there was a familiar musty odor on the breeze. He grabbed his computer case and locked his car door. It had been a long time since he’d stayed in a dump like this. Definitely second-rate—not quite sleazy, but getting there. He took another look around and headed to his room, wondering if the Caddie would still be there in the morning.
With his door locked and a chair propped under the knob, he unwrapped the sandwich he’d gotten from the vending machine in the motel office and wolfed it down, hoping it wouldn’t give him ptomaine poisoning. Then he stripped down to his briefs, turned on the TV, and lay back on the bedspread. The next thing he knew, the big rigs were heaving and groaning with the effort of gearing up, and a brilliant dawn was forcing its way through a broken slat of the metal blinds. Damn, he was still on top of the spread.
Not only that, but his mouth tasted like shit, and his body was slimy with sweat. Apparently the AC had conked out during the night. A quick shower would take care of the sweat, but freshening up his taste buds would have to wait till he was on the road. He wasn’t going to trust his luck with one of those sandwiches again.
After drying off with one of the thinnest towels in existence, he pulled on yesterday’s shirt and slacks. He hated wearing the same clothes two days in a row—it reminded him too much of when he was a kid and didn’t have a choice. Fifteen minutes later he was out the door.
Whaddaya know? The car was still there—hubcaps, tires, fucking hood ornament and all. He reached for his Ray-Bans. Early morning and the sun was already blazing bright, with not a cloud in the sky. Today would be another scorcher.
Once he hit the highway, he began feeling better. Yeah, he was Jason Redlander of Redlander Properties, and he drove a Cadillac DTS and had a five-thousand-square-foot home on eight wooded acres outside of Dallas.
He looked around at the landscape on either side of the highway as he drove. I-35 had built up a lot from when he’d first come down this way. Not many cornfields anymore. Great American enterprise had taken over. And, for good or bad, some of it had been his doing.
What was he going to do with the tracts he’d just bought in Bosque Bend? They weren’t very important as far as his operations went, but their development would mean a lot to the town. And to Ray Espinoza.
Ray—why hadn’t Ray told him about Reverend Ed? Was he embarrassed that his brother had been molested? Maybe he was trying to be considerate of Laurel. Art Sawyer had delivered a message along that line, the old sermonizer.
He switched on the radio, but kept the sound down low. Carrie Underwood was singing about how life was short and love was sweet, and how time goes by really fast.
“Sorry, Carrie, you’re hitting too close to home.” He changed to another station.
Life is short and love is sweet, and look what he’d done to Laurel. Used her and discarded her, deserted her because of her father, just like Dave Carson had done. Only Dave did it because having a pederast as a father-in-law hurt his chances to get ahead, while he himself couldn’t deal with the fact that Edward Harlow had deceived him, had betrayed the high ideals he himself had preached.
He settled back against his seat. Lucky for him, it was a straight shot up I-35 to Bosque Bend. The way his life was going these days, he’d probably get lost with any added complications. God, he’d tried so hard, but he’d made such a mess of it all.
How was he going to deal with whatever Marguerite had told Lolly? How would it affect their relationship? How does a fifteen-year-old deal with hearing her father was her mother’s boy toy? His stomach gnawed at him as he bypassed a McDonald’s. Lolly might not want to see him right now, but he wanted to be in the same town with her as soon as possible.
He’d never known Marguerite’s exact age, but in retrospect, he guessed she must have been about forty, more than twice his own age. She kept herself in great shape, but then she had to—she’d been on the prowl for years, and she was her own bait. No wonder she’d changed schools so often, probably just one step ahead of discovery. Either that or the schools had decided to keep mum and moved her on. Pass the trash, as he’d heard the practice called.
He remembered how angry he’d gotten the day he caught her sitting on the tufted divan in her bedroom, adding his picture to a photo album of other guys who looked to be about his own age. There must have been twenty of them in there.
“Don’t be childish, darling,” she’d said, swishing her negligee to the side and looking at him slantwise. Amusement rippled in her voice. “Just think of it as my hobby, initiating promising young men into adulthood. I’m really quite good at it, you’ll admit. In the future, you’ll look back on me with gratitude. Now, come here and show me all you’ve learned.”
She’d leaned back on the divan, opened her legs like a pair of scissors, and smiled invitingly, expecting the slow, skilled lovemaking she had painstakingly taught him. Instead, he’d taken her quickly and roughly, with all the anger and pain that was in him, which ultimately pleased her even more.