Chapter 27

I stomped out of the Hilton’s lobby and toward the parking lot. As I approached the Jeep, however, I pulled up short. It was sitting too low, and it looked like someone had...

As I drew closer, I momentarily forgot about Gina. Instead, my blood burned with raw, searing fury. The Jeep’s tires had been slashed, and someone had spray painted the body with graffiti. The soft top hung in tatters, slashed in a dozen places. All of the lights were smashed out, and the glass of the windshield was crazed, as if someone had taken a tire iron to it.

Rod!

I dropped my things and stormed back to the hotel, intent on murder. When I burst into one of the ΑΤΩ party suites, the people there looked up in shock.

I scanned the room with a furious glare. “Where’s Rod Fortner?” I finally asked.

They stared at me blankly.

“The Pikes,” I ground out.

“How should we know? And who the fuck—”

“Try down the hall,” one of the guys slurred.

In the next suite, the Pikes looked up at the commotion when I entered. Rod himself stood in the middle of the group, his tuxedo shirt casually undone at the neck, his tie hanging loose. When he saw me, he smirked.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain. “Do you need cab fare back to”—a condescending laugh—”the dorm?”

I wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp. I wanted to make him beg for his life. I wanted to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget. So I lunged at him, but another Pike got in the way. When I surged forward again, two of them tried to hold me back; I overpowered them with sheer fury. My fingertips caught the barest hold of Rod’s tuxedo, but he flinched from my grasp, his face a mask of alarm.

Unfortunately, six to one was not good odds, especially since I was the one. When someone hit me, I lashed out wildly, but ended up fighting for my life in a chaotic melee of punches, grunts, and crashes.

Finally, someone tackled me and I lurched into an end table. I went down hard and the breath whooshed from my lungs as the other guy landed on me. His friends pulled him up, but my knee collapsed when I tried to stand. I managed to rise to all fours, but—

“Wait, he’s mine!”

Rod kicked me in the ribs. Hard. Then he kicked me again. Despite a sudden, searing pain, I tried to rise, and he delivered a third kick to my face. I tasted blood, salty and hot, and dumbly watched it run from my mouth. I couldn’t believe it was my own. I even put my hand to my lips and stared in confusion as my fingers came away red.

“Don’t ever fuck with me!” Rod shrieked. “You miserable faggot!”

I struggled to get up.

He kicked me again, pain exploding in my side.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” a new voice asked. I recognized it, but couldn’t identify its owner.

Rod reared back for another kick, but someone—the new voice, Rusty!—pulled him off.

It was all over but the shouting, and by the time the police showed up, Rusty’s date had a towel full of ice pressed to my swelling eye. My lip and other cuts had stopped bleeding, but my clothes were covered in blood. My ears were ringing, my battered knuckles had already begun to swell, and even my teeth hurt. But worst of all, fiery pain lanced through my side with every labored breath.

Through a haze of pain, I told the police officers that I wanted to press charges. Unfortunately, they pointed out that I had attacked the Pikes, who could press charges against me.

“But I’ve talked them out of it,” said the older policeman, his voice gruff and full of paternal concern. “Self-defense might be pushing it, what with the beating you took, but you did start it. So you just keep your mouth shut about pressing charges. Okay? Now c’mon, kid, let’s have the paramedics look at you.”

The paramedics wanted to take me to the hospital to X-ray my ribs, but I refused to go. I can’t really explain why, but it was a point of macho pride, of which I was in short supply. So they put butterfly closures on the cut over my eye and the one on my cheek. They cleaned my split lip and gave me a proper icepack for my swollen eye.

Finally, the older police officer sized me up. “I’m sorry, kid, but the hotel manager says you have to leave the premises. Where’s your room? We’ll go with you while you get your things.”

“I’m no’ thaying in th’ hotel,” I mumbled, my swollen lip and face making my speech almost unintelligible.

“Okay, then,” the officer said, “we’ll take you to your car.”

“They trash’d it,” I said, pointing to the Pikes. “Tires slashed. Can’t drive.”

“You don’t say?” the officer asked, leveling an accusing glance at the Pikes.

“I’m sorry, officer, but he’s mistaken,” Rod said unctuously. “My friends and I haven’t been near his car.”

“See for y’rself,” I slurred. Then I tried to get to my feet, but pain from my ribs made my head spin.

The officer helped me up. “Okay, kid, let’s go see about your car. You too,” he added to the Pikes, “let’s go.”

The smug frat guys sauntered after us, but only after a moment, as if they deigned to obey the command. As I painfully limped down the hall—my knee would barely hold my weight—the younger policeman leaned close to the older one.

“Ned, that’s Bill Fortner’s kid,” he hissed, indicating Rod with a glance over his shoulder. “We can’t arrest him.”

“If he messed up this kid’s car,” the older cop, Ned, said, “then I damn-well will arrest him.”

“Bill Fortner plays golf with the Butchers”—the powerful bankers behind the World’s Fair—”and he eats lunch with the mayor, for Christ’s sake. He’s not the kind of guy you wanna tangle with.”

“I know who he is, and I don’t care,” Ned said. “If his kid vandalized this kid’s car, then he’s going to jail.”

“Where he’ll stay for about an hour,” the younger cop said, “until his father’s lawyer springs him. And then the chief’ll be asking why you arrested Bill Fortner’s kid. Ned, it’s not worth it. Besides, if you arrest the Fortner kid, he’ll press charges against this kid,” he added, pointing to me. “Assault is a much bigger deal than vandalism. Think about it, Ned. Don’t be crazy.”

The Pikes were still twenty feet behind us, out of earshot. They were laughing amongst themselves, confident that their families’ money and influence would protect them. Judging by the conversation between the two cops, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.

At the elevator Ned scowled and punched the call button. He was silent for the entire trip to my Jeep. When he saw it, he surveyed the damage and whistled.

“We had absolutely nothing to do with this, officer,” Rod said, oily and sincere.

“Check their hands, Holden,” Ned said to the younger cop. “See if they got any spray paint on ‘em.”

The Pikes’ hands were all clean, of course. Rod smiled smugly and winked at me. I stiffened, but was too injured to do more.

“All right,” Ned said in resignation, “you gentlemen can go back to your party.”

“Thank you, officer,” Rod said. “I’ll mention your thoroughness to Chief Lewis.”

Ned smiled tightly, without warmth. “Can we give you a ride someplace?” he asked me. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“The paramedics said my ribs weren’t broken,” I said stubbornly, wincing at the pain of speaking.

“They said they didn’t think your ribs were broken,” Ned corrected.

“I’ll take my chances.” I tried to heft my discarded overnight bag and nearly passed out from the pain.

“C’mon, kid,” Ned said gently, “you’re going to the hospital.”

I was too light-headed to argue. The ambulance had already left, so the cops put me in the back of their cruiser.

“Is there someone you want us to call? Your parents? Your girlfriend?” Ned asked on the way to the hospital.

“Girlfriend,” I mumbled. Then, painfully, I gave him Kendall’s name and number.

“Payton ... Payton ... that name rings a bell. Is her father a cop?” he asked.

“Yessir,” I said. “In Chattanooga.”

Holden snapped his fingers as that triggered a memory. “He’s that guy who drives his RV up here for all the football games. He’s the one with the good-lookin’ wife and daughter, you know, the ones with fantastic knockers. Um, sorry, kid,” he added to me, “no offense.”

I tried to smile, but ended up wincing in pain instead.

“You know,” Holden continued to his partner, “he hangs out with Leffenbach and the other homicide guys.”

“Oh yeah, I know him,” Ned said. Over his shoulder: “You’re dating his daughter? Why didn’t you say so?”

“It hurts to talk,” I said, smiling feebly.

Ned and Holden thought that was hilariously funny. I didn’t think it was so funny, but I was in too much pain to voice my opinion.

At the emergency room, they ushered me straight into one of the examination areas. With two cops for an escort, I got prompt attention. Later, when I returned from getting my chest X-rayed, Kendall was waiting for me. She looked like she wanted to hug me, but the policemen must have warned her about my injuries. I could tell by her expression that I looked like I’d been hit by a bus.

“Three fractured ribs,” the doctor was saying to her, “multiple contusions, and multiple facial lacerations. He doesn’t have a concussion, but we’d like to keep him overnight for observation.”

I shook my head as hard as I dared.

The doctor saw, but ignored me. “We’ll give him something for the pain”—the nurse swabbed my right buttock and I felt a quick sting—”and bandage his ribs. Luckily, the facial lacerations won’t need stitches.” He turned to me. “You really should stay in the hospital tonight.”

“I want to go home,” I said obstinately, irrationally.

“All right,” he said with a note of disapproval. Then he turned to Kendall. “We’ve given him a shot of Demerol, but you need to give him one of these pills every four hours. And encourage him to cough, even though it hurts. We don’t want fluid to pool in his lungs, which could cause pneumonia. Keep ice on his eye to keep the swelling down. He’s going to have one heck of a shiner, but he shouldn’t have any major scarring from the lacerations...”

Kendall was paying attention to him, so I lay back and stared at the ceiling, my thoughts dark and seething.

In the end, I didn’t go home after all: I spent the remainder of the weekend at Kendall’s apartment, in bed. She slept on a pallet on the floor beside me, when she slept at all.

She contacted her father’s friends at the police department and had my Jeep towed to a body shop. She also called Earl Walker to cancel my flying lesson, and Coach Travis to tell him that I couldn’t wrestle.

She insisted on calling my parents, although I persuaded her to tell them I’d suffered a bump on the head in a minor car accident. When I talked to Mom, she said she wanted to fly up immediately, but I convinced her not to. The effort to sound nonchalant left me digging my fingernails into my palms to suppress the pain, and by the time I hung up, I was drenched in sweat.

Kendall even called Gina, who’d heard about the fight, of course. Unfortunately, she’d heard that I was in intensive care (How do rumors get so blown out of proportion?!). She’d been calling area hospitals all day, looking for me. When she learned that I was at Kendall’s apartment, she rushed over.

I had told Kendall a sketchy, edited version of events, and she obviously blamed Gina for what had happened. Gina seemed more worried about me than anything else, and in deference to my condition, the two girls were civil to each other.

Gina also came to sit by my bed for most of Sunday, but the pain pills kept me knocked out, so I only have vague memories of her being there.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t go to class on Monday. Kendall wrote notes to each of my professors, giving them the car accident excuse. She told Siobhan that I wouldn’t be able to model for at least a week, and Siobhan said to return when I was ready.

While Kendall was in class, her roommates checked on me throughout the day. They clucked over me like mother hens, but I mostly slept. Trip and Abby had a quiet dinner with us, and even T.J. and Glen stopped by.

When they arrived, I managed to prop myself up on the couch in the living room. I tried to act normal, but with a black eye, split lip, and other cuts and bruises, I looked like I’d gone a couple of rounds with Muhammad Ali. To my surprise, T.J. scoffed at my car accident story.

“Bullshit, Loverboy,” he said. “You took a beating. I took enough of ‘em myself, and I know one when I see it. Who did it, those Pikes? Do you want us to kick their asses?”

For once, Glen didn’t try to restrain him.

“Those bastards,” T.J. fumed. “They think they can get away with anything! I’ll show them...”

Fortunately, I managed to talk T.J. out of doing anything to the Pikes. I definitely wanted to get revenge, but I reluctantly admitted that it would only cause further problems. So I decided to let Rod have his victory. It was surprisingly easy to do, especially since the night was so fresh in my mind. But I didn’t exactly relish the thought of another fight (and that’s what it would be, a no-holds-barred fight to the last man standing).

Maybe it was my fractured ribs. Maybe it was my black eye. Maybe it was my other cuts and bruises. Maybe I told myself I was an adult, and should act like it, regardless of what Rod did. Glen didn’t say anything, but I could tell that he approved. I don’t know why, but that meant almost as much as T.J.’s fearless willingness to take on the Pikes in the first place.

After they left, Kendall put me to bed. Unfortunately, I lay awake for a long time. I’d found a comfortable position, where the pain of my injuries didn’t intrude upon my thoughts. So I mentally replayed the entire Night at the Hilton (it had capital letters in my mind). I felt a mixture of guilt and anger about the whole night, and I was especially ashamed of what I’d done to Regan.

Sex wasn’t a weapon, but I had used it that way. I wanted to blame the alcohol, but I couldn’t. I wanted to blame Gina, or even Regan herself, but I couldn’t. I was too honest with myself to blame anyone but myself. I had basically raped Regan, no matter how much I wanted to rationalize it otherwise. At the time, I’d been certain that she would want to have sex with me. Worse, when she tried to get away, I held her, I forced her.

How was I any better than Rod?

I wasn’t, and I knew it. With one dark, angry decision, I had sunk to his level. I didn’t like the feeling, and I made a silent promise to myself to never act like him again.

When my thoughts dwelled on Rod, though, I began to seethe with fury. My one regret—aside from taking the beating of my life—was that I’d only been able to splash blood on his fancy tuxedo. Unfortunately, it was my blood. I hadn’t even scuffed his shoes, even when he kicked me while I was down.

There ain’t no justice.

After condemning myself for what I’d done to Regan—and deriding myself for not landing a punch on Rod—my thoughts turned to Gina.

Where to begin?

I’d like to say that I was surprised by her cocaine use, but too many clues started adding up. Everything pointed to coke, and I cursed myself for not seeing it sooner.

In part, I blamed it on my inexperience with drugs in general. Sure, I knew about cocaine, in the abstract, but until I met Felicia, I hadn’t had any practical experience with it. In high school, Gina and I had avoided anything harder than alcohol, so I didn’t automatically think of drugs whenever she did something unusual.

I also blamed myself. I hadn’t paid as much attention to Gina as I should have. Worse, I had overlooked many of the signs, through ignorance, preoccupation, or sheer stupidity. In her own way, she had asked for help, but I hadn’t given it. I’d been too wrapped up in my own life and my own problems, and I hadn’t seen what was right in front of me the whole time.

I had to blame Gina as well, though. She’d obviously been lying to me all along. She used euphemisms like “freshen her makeup,” or “powder her nose.” I laughed at the double meaning of the last phrase—a double meaning I hadn’t understood until it slapped me in the face. “Fresh-cut flowers” explained her sniffles. A head cold explained her morning-after stuffiness.

Lies, lies, and more lies.

In the end, though, I blamed Regan and Rod most of all. I was positive that Regan had given Gina the cocaine, and Rod was her ultimate source. For a moment, I thought about calling the police and reporting him for dealing drugs, but I was cynically convinced that his family’s money and connections would keep him out of jail.

(As it turned out, I was right. A month after my one-sided fight with the Pikes, Rod was pulled over for speeding. The officer noticed him casting furtive glances at the back of his Porsche. His suspicions aroused, the cop searched the car and discovered nearly two kilos of cocaine. Rod was promptly arrested. Evidence also surfaced that he was one of the main coke suppliers for the Greeks. His high-priced lawyer eventually got all of the charges dropped for “lack of evidence,” which was a farce. Shortly after, Rod moved to Miami—fled like a craven cur, more like it—to finish college. I’d like to say that he came to grief due to his drug dealing, or due to his silver-spoon, self-entitled personality, but he actually became a successful investment banker, and lives in Bermuda. There ain’t no justice, huh? He is married to wife number five, but I digress... )

I thought back through the previous months, analyzing every little detail of my life with Gina. The first time I was sure she had used cocaine was the trip to the sex shop, with Regan. Another was Regan’s birthday party at Rod’s house. Several other times quickly leapt to mind, once I started putting clues together.

Finally, I thought about how I had broken up with her. She deserved better, and the thought of living without her left a knot in my stomach. But I decided to get back together with her only if she quit doing cocaine. And if she quit the sorority, of course. The cocaine was merely a symptom of the problem; Regan and Rod—and people like them—were the problem itself.

For my own part, I’d have to deal with my guilt about Felicia, but I also felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. In my mind, I equated Felicia with Rod, and since Gina and I had both strayed, neither of us had the moral high ground.

Despite her denials, I was convinced that she had fucked Rod in Vermont. I knew how horny she got when she was on cocaine—from unwitting personal experience—and I couldn’t imagine her restraining herself. So if I could forgive her for Rod, she could forgive me for Felicia.

I also vowed to get Kendall and Gina back together. If I wanted my three-way relationship to work, I needed to do something about it. Kendall seemed more inflexible than Gina, but her stubbornness was subtler and harder to counter. Regardless, I knew I’d have to deal with it after I got back together with Gina.

I didn’t know how the details would work out, but I had a general plan. And with that in mind, I eventually drifted off asleep.

Reality intruded upon my plans a couple of days later. I had healed to the point where I could get around on my own, although my ribs still hurt any time I exerted myself. After a bit of convincing, Kendall let me move back to my dorm room.

My suitemates and friends from across the hall held an impromptu homecoming party when I returned. It wasn’t much—a Twinkie with a wooden match instead of a candle—but I definitely appreciated it.

Later, I called Gina. She asked how I was doing, and apologized for not spending more time with me. She seemed a bit distant, though.

“I just got the feeling that Kendall didn’t want me at her apartment,” she said. “And besides, after the other night...”

“Yeah,” I said heavily, “that’s something we need to talk about. We also need to talk about our relationship.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“I heard you,” she said coolly.

“Well?”

“I thought I ... I mean, I thought we ... but ... I mean, you said...” She fell silent with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess it’s not going to be as simple as I hoped.”

“Right. So we need to talk,” I said. “Um ... do you mind coming over here?”

“Okay. I’ll meet you in the lobby in half an hour.”

“Half an hour? Why so long?”

“I need to call Regan and—”

“Regan?” I said, my voice hard. “What’s she got to do with this?”

“I need to call and tell her I won’t be able to study with her tonight,” Gina replied frostily.

When I ushered Gina into my room, Billy gathered his things.

“Hi, Gina,” he said. To me: “I’m going to the theater to work on the set. And I’ll probably spend the night with Jamie. Is there anything you need before I go?”

“I’m cool, Billy. Thanks.”

He smiled and then nodded farewell to Gina.

I gingerly sat on the bed and gestured to the spot next to me in invitation.

After a moment’s reluctance, Gina abruptly sat.

I apologized for how I’d acted at the hotel. I explained that I’d been drunk, angry, and shocked by the cocaine. I also apologized for what I’d done to Regan. I didn’t come right out and use the word “rape” (I was too scared to admit it to anyone but myself), but I didn’t offer an excuse for my actions—I had none.

Then I told Gina how much I loved her, and how I wanted our relationship to work. I’d gone over the speech in my head a dozen times, and I wanted to strike the right balance between self-reproach and optimism.

“But you’re going to have to do your part if we want this relationship to work,” I said at last. “In the first place, you shouldn’t be doing cocaine. You know better than that. And you shouldn’t be hanging around with people who do it, either. I’m sorry, but if you want to get back together, you’re going to have to quit doing cocaine. And that means you need to quit hanging around with Regan. You might even have to quit the sorority too.”

I finished with a well-rehearsed note of confidence: “I love you, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get us back together and get you off drugs.”

She snorted softly in contempt. “Well, I’m glad you’re willing to let me make all those sacrifices,” she murmured.

“I know it won’t be easy,” I said, a little confused, “but we can do it. Together.”

“No,” she said, with flat finality. Then she looked at me, her dark eyes sad. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

I felt my brow crease. “I said we could get back together if—”

“I know what you said, Paul. I’m not deaf. And I’m not stupid, either.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her hands along her jeans, as if to calm herself. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to get back together.” Then she stood defiantly and moved a few feet away. “And who do you think you are, talking like you’re taking me back? I asked you to leave, Paul, not the other way around.”

“I know,” I said, blissfully ignorant. In retrospect, I wasn’t even listening to her; I still had my speech swirling in my head, including her imagined responses. “But you didn’t mean it like that. I know, I know, I told you that if I walked out, I was never coming back, and I’m sorry I said that. Neither of us meant the things we said. So now—”

To herself: “I should’ve listened to Regan.” She met my eyes. “I thought we could be adults about this. I thought we could just leave things as we’d ended them: I asked you to leave and you said you were never coming back. Why can’t it be that simple?”

“That simple...?”

“How self-centered can you be? You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Paul,” she said softly, “we shouldn’t see each other anymore. I thought I was clear, but...” She looked up gravely and held my eyes. “I’m breaking up with you.”

I whooshed, as if a baseball bat had hit me in the gut.

“I’m sorry.”

“But ... but ... but I love you,” I said, as if that answered everything.

“And I love you too. But right now, I don’t like you very much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep waiting for you to fix things. Not when I know that you’re never going to do anything. And you said you’ll never break up with Kendall, so what am I supposed to do, Paul? Am I supposed to sit by the phone, waiting for your call, hoping that you’ll decide to spend some time with me, instead of Kendall?” She shook her head. “I’m not some Stepford Wife.”

I blinked.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But I can’t be with you. I can’t keep waiting—day after day, week after week—hoping that you’ll do something! You can’t just keep me on a shelf and take me down when you want to play with me. I’m not some toy.”

“Toy? What’re you talking—”

“And you want me to give up Regan and the sorority?” she asked, warming to her invective. Sarcastically: “How noble of you. So, what’re you willing to give up to save this relationship? Huh? Wrestling? Flying? Kendall?”

“What’s she got to do with this? We got along fine before you—”

“Ha! How can you be so blind? We got along fine when she wasn’t around all the time. Now that she is, she’s sucked you in—manipulated you—and you somehow think I need to make all the changes in this relationship? Fat chance, buster!”

I stood up too fast, and my head swam.

Gina didn’t relent. “I’ve been nothing more than a convenient sex toy for you since we came to this stinking little city. And I came here because of you, Paul. But you chose Tennessee because of Kendall. Did you ever think about what I wanted? Huh? Ever?! No! You just thought about what you wanted. You’ve been taking me for granted since we came here, and I’m sick of it!

“You haven’t done a thing to fix our relationship,” she continued, fulminating. “Not a thing! I tried to be patient. I tried to fix things. I tried to extend an olive branch to Kendall. But for what? For you to tell me that you’ll allow me to give up my friends and quit the sorority? For you to tell me that you’ll take me back, when I broke up with you in the first place?

“One of us has to have the balls in this relationship, Paul,” she said. “I thought it would be you. I hoped it would be you. I desperately gave you every chance—with Regan telling me the entire time that you were just taking advantage of me—and what did you do? Nothing!” she half-shrieked. “So now, I finally work up the courage to break up with you, and you tell me—you deign to tell me—that you’ll take me back?! Screw you, Paul. Screw you and your sanctimonious offer. I hope Kendall’s happy with you. You two deserve each other. Goodbye!”

With that, she stormed out.

I stared at the closing door and seethed. I wanted to chase after her, to answer to her tirade, but I couldn’t. I could barely move faster than a steady walk, and only then at the cost of shooting pain in my side. She would be long gone by the time I made it to the elevators.

As I repeated her words in my head, I sat down in a daze.

“What the fuck just happened?” I wondered aloud.

At first, I couldn’t believe that Gina had broken up with me. I stayed up most of the night, going through the conversation in my head, listening to her final words. I kept coming to the conclusion that I’d heard her wrong, that I’d simply misunderstood.

The next morning, I stumbled through breakfast, with Kendall fussing over me and Trip trying to draw me into conversation. Even Professor Joska couldn’t get a rise out of me when he publicly lambasted me for sloppy work on my Sunsphere sketches. Christy finally got through to me, while we fixed snacks in her room after lunch.

She put her hand on my arm and turned me to face her. “Paul, what’s the matter?”

“I guess I’m still upset about my Jeep,” I lied. “I think they’re going to total it.” It was an evasion, but true enough, since the cost of repairs was more than the Jeep was worth.

For a long moment, Christy gazed at me impassively, her blue eyes searching. “Do you trust me?” she asked all of a sudden.

“Huh?”

She enunciated clearly: “Do you trust me?”

“What’s that have to do with the Jeep?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said irritably. “Just like your black eye has nothing to do with the Jeep. And your fractured ribs have nothing to do with it. Your split lip has nothing to do with it, and your cuts and bruises have nothing to do with it. None of this has anything to do with the Jeep. That’s not even what you’re upset about. Oh, sure, you’re probably upset about the Jeep, for real, but that’s not what I’m talking about. What I want to know is, do you trust me?”

“Yeah, I guess.”