Chapter 14: An Unwelcomed Release

Vincent’s thumbs dug into Claire’s mother’s shoulders with practiced precision, kneading the tension until she let out a shuddering sigh. The scent of her lavender lotion mixed with his cologne, the same brand Vincent favored, Claire would’ve noticed as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “She’s young, Amanda. When I was her age, I was hitchhiking through Mexico with a backpack full of weed.” His chuckle vibrated through her body where their skin touched. “Missing one dinner isn’t the apocalypse.”

Amanda’s fingers tightened around her wineglass, the stem threatening to snap. Through the bay window, headlights swept across the driveway for the third time in an hour, each pass another hope dashed when it wasn’t Claire’s rusted Corolla. “She’s not answering her phone,” Amanda murmured, more to herself than to him. The screen of her abandoned cellphone glowed accusingly from the coffee table, Claire’s last text, Running late, now three hours old.

Vincent’s fingers crept under Amanda’s sweater like spiders navigating familiar terrain, his palms warm against the small of her back. “She’s young,” he repeated into her hair, his breath smelling of the peppermint gum he always chewed before kissing her. “Girls that age need to rebel. You pushing will only make her hide things.” His thumbs pressed into the knots along Amanda’s spine, the same way he’d massaged Claire’s shoulders that night by the picnic table while his friend adjusted the tripod.

Amanda sighed into his touch, the stem of her wineglass loosening between her fingers. Outside, another set of headlights swept past the driveway, not Claire’s car. Again. “She’s never been this way before,” Amanda lied, but the protest sounded weak even to her own ears. Amanda had done this just the week before. Vincent’s hands moved higher, kneading the tension from her shoulders with practiced ease. She tried not to think about how Claire had flinched last week when Vincent reached across her to pass the salt.

Vincent’s fingers traced slow circles on Amanda’s bare shoulder, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, “She’s not a child anymore, Amanda. You said it yourself, she’s been pulling away, hounding her will only make her pull further.” His lips grazed the delicate skin behind her earlobe, the faint sting of his teeth making her shiver. “Maybe she needs this. Space. Something we all need sometimes.”

Amanda’s grip on her wineglass faltered, the memory of those first reckless months after the papers were signed rushing back, the late nights, the strangers’ hands on her waist in dimly lit bars. Vincent’s palm slid down her arm, his fingers interlacing with hers as he gently pried the glass from her grip. “And we,” he set it on the coffee table with a soft clink, “have the house to ourselves until she decides to come home.” His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist where the skin was thinnest, a whisper of pressure that made her pulse flutter. “Remember last time?”

The unspoken implication curled between them like smoke. Last time, when Claire had “disappeared”, when Vincent had pressed Amanda against the fridge with his hands under her skirt, when they’d left a trail of clothes up the stairs that Amanda would later rush to pick, her face red from embarassment. Amanda’s breath hitched as Vincent’s teeth found the tendon in her neck, his free hand sliding beneath the hem of her blouse. The fabric tightened across her ribs as his fingers climbed higher.

Amanda’s fingers twitched against Vincent’s shoulder, just for a second, as she remembered the purpling marks peeking above Claire’s tank top last week. “Do you think...” she started, then swallowed. Vincent’s thumb pressed harder into the knot below her shoulder blade, coaxing out the tension along with the words. “Those marks. You don’t think she’s...”

Vincent exhaled through his nose, a warm puff against Amanda’s temple, as his hands slid around to frame her waist. “Every girl starts some day,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His wedding band caught the lamplight when he reached for his phone on the coffee table. Amanda hesitated, her mind fleeing for a moment to memories of several years before, but then Claire’s strange behvaiour tugged on her strings again. “Message her,” Amanda urged, twisting slightly to watch his screen illuminate. “Maybe she’ll answer you.”

Vincent’s thumbs moved lazily over the keyboard, not typing, just tracing circles against the glass. The glow painted his stubble blue, hollowing out his cheekbones. “What should I say?” His breath hitched when Amanda shifted against him, her back pressing into his erection. The phone screen dimmed. Outside, tires hissed against wet pavement, another car that wasn’t Claire’s.

Gary’s key stuck in the lock, three jiggles before the deadbolt gave with a metallic groan. The apartment exhaled stale air, cigarette smoke and sweat clinging to the threshold. Claire stepped over a pyramid of crushed beer cans, their labels peeling like sunburnt skin. Her phone buzzed again, third time since the parking lot, but the vibration barely registered through the numbness in her thighs.

“Make yourself at home,” Gary muttered, kicking aside a pizza box blooming with gray mold. The fridge door shrieked when he yanked it open, revealing a lone takeout container and a six-pack of Schlitz. “Got some grub there.” His thumb flicked the cap off a bottle with practiced ease. “Grab one if ya like.”

Claire’s fingers brushed past the sweating bottles to the freezer compartment. Frostbiten TV dinners tumbled out as she dug for ice cubes, anything to numb the sting in her knees. The freezer light flickered, casting jagged shadows across Gary’s face when he leaned in behind her. His breath smelled of spearmint gum and something darker underneath.

Gary’s hands tracked down along her shoulders, fingers pressing into the divots above her collarbones with the same proprietary ease Vincent’s friends had used when adjusting the camera angle that night. The fridge hummed against Claire’s back as he closed the space between them, his hips pinning her against the appliance’s grimy surface. “Or we could eat later,” he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of her ear, peppermint and Schlitz masking something rancid underneath.

Gary’s fingers dug into Claire’s hips, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make her aware of the give in her flesh. The freezer light flickered again, throwing his shadow against the peeling wallpaper in grotesque angles. She focused on the condensation dripping down a forgotten vodka bottle, counting the droplets as they slid past the label’s faded Cyrillic script.

Her phone buzzed again, an insistent vibration against her thigh that made Gary’s fingers twitch where they gripped her hips. Claire seized the moment, twisting away with an elbow that caught him just under the ribs. He grunted, releasing her as she fumbled the phone from her jeans. The cracked screen illuminated with Vincent’s name above a message that made her stomach roil: Your mother’s getting worried. You want me to pick you up? The faux-concern dripped off each word like syrup. She could almost see his smirk through the text, those too-white teeth flashing in the dim light of her mother’s bedroom.

“One sec,” Claire muttered, holding up a trembling finger to Gary. His nostrils flared, but he stepped back, swigging his beer as she dialed home. The line rang twice before her mother answered, voice breathless in a way Claire recognized instantly.

“Sweetheart? Where, “ A soft, barely there smack interrupted her, followed by Vincent’s low chuckle. Claire’s knuckles whitened around the phone. The sounds were unmistakable for those who knew the signs, fabric rustling, her mother’s stifled gasp.

“Rachel’s,” Claire blurted, staring at a water stain on Gary’s ceiling that looked like a noose. “We’re moving to her home since its closest. Lost track of time. I might stay the night” Another slick noise, of an indrawn breath, punctuated the lie. Gary’s shadow loomed closer, his free hand tracing the waistband of her jeans and trailed upwards to cup her breast.

The call ended with a soft click, drowned out by Gary’s fingers pressing down again, harder against the seam of her jeans. Claire’s phone slipped from her grip, clattering onto the linoleum, the screen still lit with Vincent’s last message, the letters blurring as Gary’s thumb circled over the denim. She could hear her mother’s breathless “Oh god, “ lingering in the silence, a phantom echo that made her teeth ache.