Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [39]
Mary Theresa and Mitch! Blood relatives. They were practically brother and sister! Oh, God, no. Ever downward she ran, telling herself that what she’d seen was a mistake, that somehow she’d witnessed something entirely different. It was just her wild careless imagination that was jolting her out of control, that was it.
Above the illumination from the streetlamps, the stars seemed to jumble and collide. Inside, her heart pounded hard. Ready to explode. Her guts cramped.
Reeling, she stopped at a corner, panting, crying, placing her head between her knees, and wondering what in God’s name she would do. So her sister and brother were kissing, making out in the hot tub. It wasn’t a big deal, was it? So they’d been touching…that was part of growing up and exploring and…oh, who was she kidding? It was wrong. Way beyond wrong. It was sick. Even if they weren’t actually brother and sister. Still, they were related. What Mary Theresa and Mitch were doing violated some deep and primitive moral code.
Nothing happened. Mitch’s words rang in her ears, echoed through her mind.
Somewhere in the distance a police siren wailed through the night. A garage door opened and a neighbor dragged his trash can to the curb. Think, Maggie, think. You’ve got to go home. Face them. Face Mom and Dad. Her knees threatened to give way and she clung to the lamppost, taking in deep breaths of air laden with the scents of honeysuckle and roses.
She forced herself to her feet, began running again.
Not far away tires screamed on pavement.
Just pretend it didn’t happen, she told herself, like you didn’t see anything, just like you don’t see Mother pour vodka into her orange juice in the morning, or that you haven’t found bottles stashed in the laundry closet or behind the gardening tools. The hot-tub scene didn’t happen. You imagined it. Saw something else.
Headlights flashed on the asphalt as the sound of a car’s engine, Mitch’s Mustang, neared. Maggie started running again, faster and faster along the sidewalk that skimmed the edges of brick fences and wrought-iron gates and the secrets they guarded.
The thrum of a bass guitar reached her ears, the rhythmic cadence of drums. Mitch, driving his Mustang slowly, rolled down his window. “Get into the car, Maggie,” he ordered over the loud music.
“No!” She tried to run again.
“Listen—”
“Go away.” She reached the curb, stumbled, then dashed across a side street as another car caught her in its headlights.
“Damn.” Mitch gunned his engine, and at the far curb, Maggie turned sharply, up the side street. Her lungs burned, her thighs ached so bad they quivered, but she gritted her teeth and kept running. Adrenaline spurred her on. She heard the sound of Mitch’s tires screeching as he threw the gearshift into reverse and burned rubber. There was an ominous moment of silence when all Maggie could hear was her own ragged breathing and the thudding of her heart—then the squeal of rubber on asphalt, the sound of an engine being gunned angrily, and the smell of burned rubber hanging in the air.
In a second his car was beside her. Mitch leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window. “Get in.”
She didn’t answer, just kept running, uphill past the houses as her calves screamed in pain.
“Jesus Christ, Maggie, get in the car!”
She was gasping by this time, her lungs on fire.
“Fine.” He slammed on the brakes, threw open the car door, and, while the pounding beat of an old Creedence Clearwater Revival song rocked through the night, Mitch started running. In the best shape of his life, he caught up with her within seconds, grabbed hold of her arm, spun her roughly around, and stared down at her tear-stained face. “Let’s go home, Mag. Come on.”
“No!” She hit him then, her small fist pounding on his chest. “No!”
“Maggie, please.