Crush - Alan Jacobson [43]
“Uh huh.” Robby squinted and shifted his gaze from Dixon to Vail, then decided to heed Dixon’s advice.
Dixon backed away. “You two have a great evening. Pick you up tomorrow? Eight-thirty?”
“Sure,” Vail said. “See you in the morning.”
Dixon got in her car and drove off.
Vail tilted her head at Robby the way a mother looks at a son expecting an explanation.
“What?”
“You found her attractive,” she said. “I can tell.”
“Well, yeah. She is. Is that up for debate?”
Vail slapped him in the arm. “Wrong answer.”
“I’m just saying. It is what it is. I didn’t say I was attracted to her. I said she was attractive.”
“Is there a difference?” Vail asked.
“Yeah. But to set the record straight, yes, I was attracted to her. I’m a man, she’s a beautiful woman. But you’re more beautiful. Besides, you’ve got my heart.”
She reached out and grabbed his groin. “That’s not all I’ve got.”
Robby raised his eyebrows, then guiltily glanced around the parking lot, which was now bathed in fading light. He said, “I think I should take this inside.”
AND THAT’S EXACTLY what he did. Afterwards, Vail rolled off him and stared at the ceiling. “That makes up for what turned out to be a tough day.”
“You have to learn to play well with others,” Robby said.
“How did you know what happened?”
He gave her a look that said, Come on. “Give me some credit. I think I know you pretty well, Karen.”
She yawned. “You know what, I don’t even care anymore. About today. I’m hungry . . . starved. But I’m so . . . I feel so rested. I don’t want to move.”
Robby got off the bed and drew the curtains. It was now ink black outside, the sun having set and the woods filtering whatever stray light might be emanating from the moon. “Let’s order room service,” Vail said, her speech groggy.
“Good one,” Robby said as he slipped on his pants. “How about I go out, get something, and bring it back?”
“Sounds good to me,” she mumbled. “Wake me when you get back . . .”
VAIL WAS ASLEEP, dreaming of yodeling sommeliers, the oak barrel scent of raspberry-nosed Pinot Noir, the weight of Robby lying atop her, the heat of the Day Spa sauna . . . hot . . .
Sweating . . .
So hot . . .
And the stench of gasoline. Gasoline?
Nose stings, hard to breath, smoke—
Vail woke from her stupor, lifted her head, and saw nothing. Blackness like a velvet coffin enveloped her. Cocoonlike in its confinement, thick. She felt around—she was on the bed. Asleep. Robby—he went for food.
Felt her fanny pack on the night table, with the Glock’s prominent bulge.
Can’t see. Cough! What’s the layout of the room? She couldn’t remember—but just then, something blasted through the small window, a fireball, flames—feeding on the once-delicate frilly curtains, conflagrating upwards toward the ceiling. Covering the walls.
Vail snatched the fanny pack and tossed the strap over her head. Wrapped a robe around herself and stumbled off the bed. Ran for the door—grabbed the knob and—fuck! Hotter than hot. Found a piece of clothing, wrapped it around her hand and tried to turn it. Locked? Jammed? She slammed against it with her shoulder. It rattled but didn’t budge. The door opens from the inside—it’d have to be pushed open from the outside.
She turned toward the window—only way out—but a wall of flames stared back. Angry, ferocious fire lunged at her.
The smoke, so thick. Get down, crawl—she fell to her knees, more because of her inability to breathe than a memory of what to do in the case of fires, which was suddenly plucked from some deep reach of consciousness.
She started toward the bathroom, but the air . . . so thick with particulates she tasted it on her tongue. Go, go, toward the bathroom. Window? Can’t remember . . .
Get out of here!
Made it to the bathroom, reached up—doorknob hot, burning hot—can’t open it. Hot doorknob means fire inside the room.
Turned back toward the front door, need a chair, smash through it . . .
But as she crawled along the floor, her chest felt heavy, tight—no air.
Robby! she screamed in